The Missed Calls
905 Words
The first call came just after noon on the day she left.
I was standing inside the gatehouse, the midday sun slanting through dust-flecked glass. On my screen, her name glowed like a warning:
Marie Montgomery. Missed Call.
I hadn’t seen her leave. Not exactly.
Just… felt the absence. Sudden. Hollow.
Like a room stripped of air.
Still, I waited. Gave it a few hours. I’m not the kind of man who panics easily, or calls out of fear.
Marie valued her space. I always respected that.
But this silence-didn’t feel like space.
It felt off.
Unsettling.
I pressed the call button, lifted the phone to my ear. It rang. And rang.
Then her voicemail cool, professional, unreachable.
“You’ve reached Marie Montgomery. I’m unavailable at the moment. Please leave a message.”
I didn’t.
I hung up.
Told myself it was a fluke. One missed call. Nothing more.
Day Two
By the next morning, the silence felt heavier.
I tried again, earlier this time. The sun hadn’t even burned off the dew on the lawn.
Another ring.
Another trip to voicemail.
This time, I left a message brief. Measured.
“Hey. It’s me. Just checking in. Hope you’re okay.”
No response.
That afternoon, I caught myself scrolling through our old message thread.
Late-night texts. Photos of half eaten takeout. Her voice notes sent when she was too tired to type, whispering her thoughts between yawns.
One caught me off guard.
“I think I’m falling for you,” she said, laughing softly.
I played it twice.
Then once more.
And set the phone down like it burned.
Because she hadn’t said goodbye.
Not even a note.
Just gone.
Day Three
By the third day, worry wasn’t a whisper anymore.
It was a drumbeat in my chest.
I called twice.
Morning.
Evening.
The second voicemail ran longer. My voice cracked more than once.
“Marie… I don’t know if this is work or if you just needed to get away. And if that’s what this is, I understand. But could you let me know you’re safe? You don’t have to explain. Just… I need to know you’re okay.”
Still nothing.
That night, I sat outside the gatehouse under a bruised sky.
Porch light glowing behind me.
Phone silent beside me.
And the stars sharp, cold, endless offered no answers.
Day Four
By day four, dread bloomed like rot.
I watched the drive longer. Studied every car that passed. My hands couldn’t stay still tapping, fidgeting, folding napkins I didn’t need.
At lunch, Martha from the main house brought a steaming thermos of stew. She looked at me too long.
“Any word?” she asked softly.
I shook my head.
“She’s probably just… thinking.”
Martha didn’t say anything for a moment.
Then, finally:
“She’s lucky,” she said. “That you’re still here. Waiting.”
Day Five
That evening, I called again.
My voice was quieter. Rough. Scraped from the inside out.
“Marie. I don’t know where you are. I don’t know what this is. But this silence it hurts. I’m not angry. I just care. I care, and I don’t know how to do that in the dark.”
I swallowed.
“I miss you. Even if you think I shouldn’t.”
Then I ended the call.
Didn’t expect anything in return.
But I left the porch light on anyway.
Day Six
On the fifth day, it didn’t even ring.
Straight to voicemail.
I sat in the gatehouse with my back to the wall. Phone heavy in my hand.
I stared at the screen until my eyes blurred.
And then I whispered into the quiet:
“Please come back.”
Day Seven
The sixth day broke cold and pale.
I didn’t call.
I’d run out of words to say to a silence that never answered.
So I stood outside, watching the sun rise over the hills.
“If you’re figuring things out,” I murmured to the wind, “I hope you find peace. But just know I’m still here. Still choosing you.”
Then I turned back inside.
And kept waiting.
Her Message
That night, the phone buzzed.
Just once.
Marie Montgomery. Missed Call.
My heart stuttered.
I stared at her name, thumb fumbling on the screen.
A message followed. Short. Tentative.
“I’m sorry I’ve been quiet. I’ll be home soon. Please don’t give up on me.”
I read it three times.
Then typed:
“Never did. Just glad you’re okay.”
I stepped outside. The night air curled around me—like breath held too long finally let go.
She was safe.
She was coming home.
The Second Message
But then
Twelve minutes later
The second message came.
I hadn’t heard the buzz.
But it was there.
Unread. Waiting.
From Marie.
“If anything happens before I get there check the box in the back of the closet. Top shelf.”
I froze.
My thumb hovered over the screen.
Then I read it again. Slower this time.
Once.
Twice.
A cold wave rolled through me deep and full of knowing.
Because this wasn’t just about space.
This wasn’t just silence.
This was fear.
I stepped inside the gatehouse, my heart pounding.
Crossed the room.
Opened the closet.
And there behind a stack of old winter coats, just where she said it would be
It waited.
The box I hadn’t touched in years.
Until now.
- Writer
