The living room was silent, except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the old wooden floorboards. The air was heavy, thick with grief and the scent of lilies that filled every vase, every corner, every breath. Daniel sat on the edge of the sofa, his eyes red and swollen, his hands shaking as he tried to focus on the flickering candle at the altar. Its flame danced, casting shadows on the photo of his wife, Lucía, smiling in the sunlight—forever young, forever gone.

It had all happened so fast.

One moment, Lucía was bustling around the kitchen, humming her favorite song, her laughter echoing down the hallway. The next, she was clutching her chest, gasping for air, her face twisted in pain. Daniel had called for help, his voice frantic, but by the time the paramedics arrived, it was too late. The doctor’s words were final, clinical: “Myocardial infarction. I’m sorry.”

The funeral was a blur—faces he barely recognized, murmured condolences, the priest’s solemn prayers. Daniel moved through it all like a ghost, numb and automatic, his only anchor the small hand of his daughter, Sofia, clinging to his own. She was only eight, her eyes wide and frightened, her world suddenly shattered.

He had tried to hold himself together, for her sake. He greeted guests, signed papers, arranged flowers, made endless phone calls. He barely slept. He barely ate. He barely remembered to breathe.

It was only when the funeral ended, when the last guest had left and the hearse had driven away, that Daniel realized his phone was missing. He searched everywhere—his pockets, the kitchen, the bathroom, the garden. He asked his brother, his mother-in-law, the funeral director. No one had seen it.

“Maybe I left it in the car,” he muttered, trying to convince himself it wasn’t important. But the phone contained everything—messages from Lucía, photos of Sofia, reminders, contacts, the last voicemail she’d left him, just hours before her heart gave out.

He tried to put it out of his mind. The coffin was sealed, lowered into the earth, covered with roses and tears. Daniel stood by the graveside, his daughter’s hand in his, whispering a final goodbye. He felt hollow, like a shell, his heart a silent echo.

That night, the house was colder than usual. Sofia fell asleep clutching her mother’s pillow, her small body curled into a ball. Daniel wandered from room to room, unable to rest, haunted by memories—Lucía’s laughter, her scent, her touch. He sat at the kitchen table, staring at the empty chair across from him, the one she used to occupy every morning.

At midnight, his old landline rang. The sound was jarring—he hadn’t heard it in weeks, not since they’d switched to using their cell phones for everything. He hesitated, then picked up.

No one spoke.

He listened to the silence, heart pounding, until finally he hung up. He tried to convince himself it was a wrong number, a glitch.

Then, his laptop pinged—a message notification. He frowned, opening the screen. It was an email, sent from his own address, his own phone number.

The subject line read: “I’m still here.”

Daniel’s blood ran cold. He opened the message, his hands trembling.

“Amor, todavía estoy aquí. No dejes que te engañen.”

Love, I’m still here. Don’t let them fool you.

He stared at the words, unable to move, unable to breathe. It was Lucía’s voice—her pet name for him, her way of signing every note, every message. He felt a chill run down his spine.

He tried to think rationally. Maybe someone had found his phone, maybe they were playing a cruel joke. Maybe it was a glitch, a delayed message, a technical error.

But the phone was gone. Sealed inside Lucía’s coffin. Buried six feet under.

Daniel’s mind raced. He remembered the moment at the funeral, when he’d leaned over the casket to kiss Lucía’s forehead one last time. He’d set his phone down, just for a second, to hold her hand. In the chaos, he’d forgotten to pick it up. The coffin had been closed, locked, and lowered into the ground.

He felt sick.

He tried calling his own number, but it went straight to voicemail. He checked his email, his social media, but there were no new messages, no clues. He searched online for explanations—phantom texts, glitches, stories of lost phones sending messages from beyond the grave. Nothing made sense.

He barely slept that night. He lay awake, listening to the wind, the creak of the house, Sofia’s soft breathing. He felt Lucía’s absence like a wound, raw and unhealed.

The next morning, Daniel tried to go about his day. He made breakfast for Sofia, packed her lunch, walked her to school. He smiled, hugged her, told her he loved her. He tried to be strong.

But the message haunted him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Lucía was trying to reach him, that she was still close, somehow.

That afternoon, he returned to the cemetery. The sky was gray, the air heavy with rain. He walked to Lucía’s grave, kneeling beside the fresh earth, tracing her name on the marble stone.

He whispered, “I miss you. I need you. Please, if you’re still here, give me a sign.”

The wind picked up, rustling the leaves. Daniel closed his eyes, listening, hoping.

His phone buzzed.

He froze. He reached into his pocket, but it was empty. He looked around, but there was no one nearby.

Then he heard it—a faint vibration, coming from beneath the ground.

He knelt, pressing his ear to the earth. The sound was unmistakable—his phone, buried with Lucía, vibrating against the wood of the coffin.

He began to cry, his tears soaking the soil. He whispered apologies, prayers, desperate words.

He stayed there for hours, until the sun set and the cemetery closed. He walked home in the dark, his heart heavy, his mind swirling with questions.

That night, another message arrived. This time, it was a photo—Lucía, smiling, holding Sofia in her arms. It was a picture Daniel had never seen before, taken on a day he hadn’t been there. He stared at it, searching for clues, for answers.

The caption read: “Don’t forget us. We’re still with you.”

Daniel broke down, sobbing, clutching the laptop to his chest. He felt Lucía’s presence, warm and comforting, wrapping around him like a blanket.

Over the next days, the messages continued. Sometimes they were short—“I love you,” “Take care of Sofia,” “Remember our promise.” Sometimes they were longer—memories, jokes, stories from their life together. Sometimes they were just emojis—a heart, a smile, a sun.

Daniel began to live for the messages. He checked his email constantly, waiting for signs. He visited the cemetery every day, talking to Lucía, sharing his fears, his hopes, his love.

He told Sofia about the messages, careful not to frighten her. She listened, wide-eyed, and whispered, “Maybe Mommy is an angel now. Maybe she wants to help us.”

Daniel nodded, hugging her close. He wasn’t sure what to believe, but he knew he wasn’t alone.

One night, Daniel dreamed of Lucía. She stood in a field of sunflowers, her hair blowing in the wind, her eyes bright and alive. She smiled, reaching out to him.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “I’m always with you. Love never dies.”

He woke with tears in his eyes, but for the first time since Lucía’s death, he felt a glimmer of hope.

He started to rebuild his life, piece by piece. He returned to work, spent time with friends, took Sofia to the park. He laughed, cried, remembered. He kept Lucía’s memory alive, telling stories, sharing photos, celebrating her birthday.

The messages slowed, then stopped. Daniel waited, hoping for more, but none came. He felt a pang of loss, but also a sense of peace.

He realized that Lucía’s love was still with him—in Sofia’s smile, in the warmth of the sun, in the quiet moments of joy and sorrow. He carried her with him, always.

Years passed. Sofia grew, blossomed, became a young woman. Daniel watched her, proud and grateful, knowing Lucía was watching too.

On the anniversary of Lucía’s death, Daniel returned to the cemetery. He brought flowers, candles, and a letter. He knelt by her grave, whispering thanks, sharing his life, his love.

As he stood to leave, his phone buzzed.

He froze, heart racing. He checked the screen—a message from his own number.

“Thank you for remembering. I’m still here. Always.”

Daniel smiled, tears streaming down his face. He looked up at the sky, feeling Lucía’s presence, her love, her light.

He walked home, hand in hand with Sofia, knowing that some bonds could never be broken.