Stop digging, there's no Jasmine

It was 2:00 AM, Albert was tossing and turning from side to side. Sleep drifted further and further away from his eyes, which were still resisting the overwhelming drowsiness after a long and hectic day at work.

Albert had been working at a newspaper in his city ever since he graduated from university. He nailed his degree in journalism.

Every night, at the same time, he receives calls from an unknown number. Every time he tried to pick up the phone, silence filled the air. It was strange—receiving calls every night, exactly at the same hour.

What the heck is going on?!

His mind drifted back to couple of days ago. The mystery behind the case he’d been working on for the past two months—Jasmine, the young woman found murdered in a neighborhood alley.

Albert was one of the most well-known journalists in town, with experience that exceeded ten years. His reports were courageous, as they should be. No threats could silence him. He moved from one social case to another, even though political ones that constantly put his life in danger.

With a deep belief that words speak louder than voice, he built his path in this career.

Gangs, bandits, rapists—they were all threads that led to the same core: big businessmen. The little guys were just a front for massive, dirty empires. Worst of all? They all served the same people.

It was 1:30 AM. He was impatiently waiting for the usual call. As he reached for the phone, the line was dead.

Alone with his thoughts, he lay back on the bed, hands behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

His room was falling apart. In the corner above the window, spiders had built a large home for themselves. As he stared, a strip of peeling paint fell and dusted his face in white.

He groaned. Everything felt like it was falling apart.

Back in thought, he suddenly leapt from the bed like a madman, frantically searching for Jasmine’s file among the mountain of papers on his desk. It took twenty full minutes, but he found it.

The file was thick and milky in color. He began flipping through it, scanning the notes and photos—until a message jolted him.

His phone buzzed.

He ran to it and read the text:

"Stop digging. There is no Jasmine..."

Albert froze.

His eyes widened.

Sweat streamed down his face.

His heart skipped a beat.

He shut his eyes, tried to steady himself—but he couldn’t tear them away from the screen.

He opened True caller app, searched the number. Unknown.

Was work pressure finally cracking his mind?

It’s that case... he whispered.

The image of the raped girl, discovered lifeless in a dim alley nearby, lingered in his thoughts like a shadow that never left.

There was only one way forward: trace the number that had been haunting him night after night.

"Got it. I’ll contact the mobile service provider."

He opened his laptop, logged in, and typed the email. He wrote that he’d been receiving repeated calls at night from an unidentifiable number, and he was requesting that the number be traced legally.

He hadn’t slept properly in days.

At 7:30 AM, his alarm rang. He opened his eyes and instantly grabbed his phone.

No replies.

He took a long, half-hour shower.

Just as he stepped out and reached for his clothes, his phone buzzed.

It was a reply—from the same email he’d sent:

"We cannot track the number. Please obtain permission from General Security."

He didn’t think twice. He threw on the first clothes he found and rushed to the public security office. At the directorate building, he asked about the right department. A guard on duty pointed him to the correct section. Entering the office, he asked the person in charge to raise the issue about the strange calls he'd been receiving.

The officer replied:

“We'll send the request to the director of the department for approval. You need to wait for our response within two days, okay?”

Albert thanked them and returned to his work—and to the same nightmare of nightly calls.

Three days passed. Still, nothing.

On the fourth morning, his phone rang.

Caller ID: General Security.

“Good morning, are you Mr. Albert?”

“Yes, that’s me. Any updates?”

“Yes. What you'll hear now, is a bit strange, the number you asked us to trace has been out of service for fifteen years.”

Albert froze.

The words “out of service for fifteen years” echoed like thunder in his head.

“But I’ve been receiving calls from it... every single night...”

His voice trembled.

Silence.

Then the officer said:

“We double-checked. The line was disconnected fifteen years ago, sir.”

Albert couldn’t respond.

He couldn’t move.

His mind drifted away from the room...

Back to the alley.

To that night.

To when he was seventeen.

The girl.

The scream.

The blood.

Marc.

His best friend. The one who raped her.

A memory buried under years of silence.

He wanted to report it, to scream. But he couldn’t.

Marc had looked him in the eye and said:

“Say one word... and your sister is next.”

Albert sat on the edge of his bed, gripping the phone. The line was dead, but the voice inside his head screamed louder than ever.

Fifteen years,

fifteen years since that night,

he could smell the alley, the blood

he could also still hear the girl's screams.

It was her,

it had been her.

The only part left that hadn't vanished.

He picked up his notebook, and for the first time in 15 years, he let the ink flow not for news, not for a headline, But for her.

The truth,

the story, he owned her that.

When he finished, the phone beside him rang, Albert reached it, he answered and whispered:

" I remember you, I'm sorry.

For the First fifteen years, he felt that the weight he held in his chest just vanished.

Now, he will be sleeping peacefully for the first time in 15 years.