A Line Reconnected

Would you ever make a call if you knew no one would answer?

Amber stood inside the telephone booth, the rain drumming a melancholic rhythm on the glass panes. London’s usual cacophony was drowned out by the steady downpour, leaving only a bitter silence in the booth. Her long, chestnut hair clung to her cheeks, dampened by the ruthless rain. The city seemed to hold its breath, waiting for her to make a decision that could…hopefully, change everything, and nothing at the same time.

Inside, Amber’s hands trembled as she gripped the receiver, her palms slowly growing clammy by the minute. Her hazel eyes were clouded with torment and uncertainty. A few strands of her hair escaping from her messy bun fell over her eyelashes, and she sniffed in frustration, not bothering to move it away.

She had been standing there for twenty minutes already, and still not mustered up the courage to dial the number. 

What’s wrong with you? A menacing voice in her head snapped, a voice that appeared much too often. Do you truly believe he’s going to pick up? 

Amber leaned against the booth’s cold frame, her eyes closed. She gulped, and let out a shaky breath, pools of tears forming in her eyes. Her hand, still quivering, dug into the pocket of her coat, fishing out a handful of coins.

Anxiously fumbling with a coin, she tapped it repeatedly against the edge of the slot, waiting for the familiar click that would allow her to insert it.

Her breaths were shallow and rapid, her heart pounding as she dialed her father's number.

Her father, who was long gone.

“Please pick up, please pick up, please pick up,” she murmured frantically, like a mantra etched into her brain, her voice strained with desperation and longing. But of course, there was no answer, only a hollow echo of the line.

Amber hung up, and dialed again, tapping the coin against the slot with increased distress. The phone rang, and rang, mocking her with its unanswered persistence. Her breath hitched in her throat with each ring, and her vision blurred by tears that fell uncontrolled.

“Please, Dad,” she managed to choke out between sobs, her voice cracking with grief, “I- I miss you so much.”

She tapped the coin again, her fingers shaking violently, waiting for the click that never came. Ringing once more, the phone was nothing but silence on the other end.

Coins clinked in her hand tauntingly, as if each could buy her one more chance to hear his voice. But with each unanswered call, hope diminished, and despair clutched tight at her heart, pressing her in, and breaking her down.

Her fingers trembled, each tap of the coin against the slot a painful reminder of the empty line, and her father's absence echoing louder by the minute.

Amber’s knees buckled beneath her, and she sank to the floor of the booth, clutching the receiver to her ear as if it were her lifeline. It continued to ring

and ring

and ring…

All of a sudden, as if from a distant realm, a seemingly mechanical woman’s voice cut through the relentless ringing.

“Hello! Welcome to The Ghostly Call Service! How may we assist you today?”

She jerked up and the telephone fell to the ground with a loud thud.

Amber stayed frozen in her position, staring at the telephone in sheer disbelief.

What felt like a thousand heartbeats later, the voice asked once again, its tone strangely calm despite the chaos, “Hello? Is this Amber Wilson? Ma’am, are you alright?”

The words hung thick in the air, and Amber struggled to comprehend what was happening. How could this voice know her name? Was this some kind of cruel prank?

Slowly, she reached out, and picked up the receiver, bringing it to her ear.

“Y-Yes,” She finally managed to reply, her voice barely above a hoarse whisper, “I am Amber Wilson. Who are you?”

There was a brief pause, filled only with the static crackle of the line.

“You have reached us for a reason, Amber. The line connects us when it senses someone seeking contact with a departed loved one.” The voice replied, unwavering.

Amber’s mind raced. 

Was this a fever dream?

She clasped onto the receiver tighter, her knuckles turning white from the pressure.

“Contact? My- my dad passed away five months ago,” Amber started, and then swallowed, “I just really wanted to hear his voice again even though I know it’s impossible.”

Five months, equal to about 152 days, spent laying in her bed, sobbing, and clutching his old, worn-out sweater to her chest. She had isolated herself from friends and family, unable to face the world without him. Her once vibrant spirit was overshadowed by grief that seemed never ending.

The line crackled softly again, and this time the voice seemed to carry a surprising note of empathy, “We understand your grief, Amber. Our service exists to help people like you find solace. To reconnect, even if only briefly, and to feel the presence of those you have lost."

Amber’s eyes furrowed with intrigue, and she rocked forward and back on the heels of her shoes, “How does this work? What do I have to do?”

“Listen closely,” The voice instructed, and she slowly nodded, as if the voice was standing right beside her, “Traces of your father’s presence still linger in the city. Follow the whispers, which are signs only you can perceive. They will guide you to the places where your father’s memories are still alive.”

Her heart raced as she processed the words, her mind teetering between hope and skepticism, "Where do I start?" she asked.

"Step outside the booth," the voice said softly, "Have trust in the line, and always trust the whispers."

Amber blinked.

"What does that even-"

The line disconnected with a soft click, leaving her in the heavy silence of the booth. She stared at the receiver in her hand, remnants of the bizarre conversation swirling in her mind. Placing the receiver back on the hook, Amber ran an unsteady hand through her hair.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the booth door and stepped into the rain-soaked street. The city's sounds began to seep back into her awareness - distant traffic, murmur of voices, and the sloshing of soggy boots in the puddles. But amidst these, she tried to focus on the "whispers", as the voice had ordered.

Amber closed her eyes for a moment, tuning out the surrounding noises, and then she heard it. A faint, almost unnoticeable whisper at the back of her mind.

Left.

She opened her eyes and followed the direction, her heart pounding.

As she walked, the whispers became clearer, like her father's voice, softly guiding her.

Eventually, Amber was led to "Brew Haven", the ancient coffee shop which was their favorite haunt.

She gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, "I thought it closed down ages ago."

Its ivy-covered walls and creaky sign brought back bittersweet memories of the rainy afternoons spent with her father here.

As she took a seat, their usual order suddenly came flooding into her mind, as if it were second nature.

Two cups of house-blend coffee with milk, and whipped cream, and a slice of apple cinnamon cake.

Her father always had a knack for choosing the best spots to sit, and they would spend hours talking about almost everything.

Amber found a seat by the window, the same place her father used to sit with her every time. He always preferred this corner, saying it offered the best view of the bustling street outside. They would sit there for ages, her father sipping his coffee slowly, relishing each sip while discussing books, movies, and life. He had a way of making the most ordinary topics seem so profound.

Each bite and sip brought back his laughter, easy smile, and their conversations, warming her heart with bittersweet nostalgia.

She could almost hear his voice, feel the slight nudge of his elbow each time he made a witty remark.

As Amber finished her last bite, she sensed the whispers urging her to move on. She paid the bill, left a tip on the table (a practice her father had always done), and stepped back into the rain feeling a strange mixture of sorrow and comfort.

She followed the faint whispers that guided her along the twisting streets until she came to a stop in front of her bookstore, the very same one her father frequented every Sunday.

Hesitating for a moment, Amber took in the sight. Even though her father wasn't here with her, just the mere presence of the place brought a flood of overwhelming emotions that threatened to spill over.

She tilted her head back slightly, and focused her gaze on the sky, trying to stop the tears. Blowing out a puff of air, she pushed the door open, the bell ringing.

Amber wandered through the narrow aisles, her fingers trailing along the spine of countless books. Her father had a favorite armchair, worn and cozy, where he would often read aloud to her when she was young. She remembered how he would open the picture books wide, imitating the characters' voices with exaggerated expressions, making her laugh until her sides hurt.

The whispers grew louder, guiding her to a particular shelf. She picked out a classic from the shelf and sank into the armchair. As Amber flipped through the pages, she noticed an inscription on the title pages: "Books are the best kind of therapy."

It may not have been a personal note from him, but it seemed like a message meant just for her, and just at the right time.

Her father, with his love for literature, had always instilled in Amber the value of finding comfort in reading. In her grief, she had forgotten how relieving these books could be, but now, guided by the whispers, she was rediscovering the eternal bond she had with him.

As she left the bookstore, the whispers gently guided her to a familiar park, one that held countless, and the most special memories of her father. It had always been their place, where they would stroll down the cobbled paths together, and stop to feed the ducks in the lake.

Amber approached a moss-covered bench nestled under a sprawling oak tree. She imagined him sitting there, as he sketched scenes from all their outings in a small notebook he always had in his pocket, and remembered herself curiously looking over his shoulder as he drew.

The whispers grew quieter as if giving her space to reflect.

She felt a sense of peace she hadn't felt in months.

The ache in her heart was still there, but it was softer now, soothed by the memories she had revisited throughout that day.

After leaving the park, the whispers had ceased, but there was still one thing Amber had to do.

She returned to the telephone booth, the place where everything had begun. With a deep breath, she dialed her father's number once more.

A moment later, the line connected, and the mechanical voice of The Ghostly Calls Service greeted her.

"Amber Wilson," the calm voice said, recognizing her, "Did you follow the voices?"

"I did," Amber replied, her voice steadier now, "And I think it's time to answer my inner call..."

As she walked away from the booth, the rain continued to fall, but for the first time in months, there was a glimmer of hope amidst the melancholy.