the phone-booth to call the dead is pink.

“My mum died.” 

The receptionist looked up from her desk, bleary eyed. Her face looked muted. “What?”

“My mum died,” the boy repeated. 

The lady let out a sigh, picking a leftover ramen noodle out from her messy bun. “Her life-ID number?”

He glanced down at the faded card in his hand. “02GH446. Wait, Miss, that’s not a number– there’s letters in—”

“Here’s ya ticket. Phone-booth nine. Take a left and it’s at the end of that hall.”

“But–”

“Take it or leave it, Kid.” The receptionist shoved the ticket into his reaching palms before immediately falling back to sleep. The boy thought that she was weird. 

He turned left as instructed, tucking the card into his back pocket. The last phone-booth was a cheery pink, which seemed rather unfitting to the boy. Some cobwebs were also gathering at the edges, a bit like wispy wind. 

He went inside, closing the door behind him and sliding the ticket into a little golden slot. There was a distorted ding! like an invisible speaker was broken. The boy took a deep breath, then rested his hand on the telephone, picking it up. 

A voice crackled through. “H-hello? Who b-e call-in-ing me at this hour?”

His little heart soared. “Ma? Ma! Ma, it’s me!”

“Me dear boy?” There was a delighted gasp. “Is it really you?”

“Yes, Ma, it is! I have a question, that’s all, and then I’ll go, don’t worry. I won't be taking your time.”

“Oh, Love, don’t you worry about me time. I’ve got all the time in the world!” The boy heard a soft laugh. “Well, not the world, tee-hee, more like the under-world! But please do tell me your question.”

He hesitated, as if afraid of her response. “Ma… Why did you die?”

A pause. “Why did I…” she echoed quietly, to herself. “I… I died for many reasons, yes, me boy. A bit because of heartbreak with your father– the memories of it, at least. And a little because of me horrible habits with... Well, I’m ashamed, really, so I won’t say it, but, most of all, I’d like to say fate had a place in it. You see, me boy, our lives are tied to divinity, and the place our heart is in will ultimately decide where we end up. Fate is what it is– like the way that river from our old house flowed into all those little streams. There are many paths in life. I have landed at the end of mine, I suppose, me boy.”

The boy thought for a moment. Fate, he decided, was quite a complicated thing for him to understand, but he nodded along, anyhow. “I see, Ma. You are dead because the gods wished so.”

He heard her sigh gently, a touch of contentment in it. “I do miss you so…” she mumbled to herself. “No, me boy, the gods did not wish upon me such a destiny. It was simply the course of which me life decided to take.  

“Think of it as a dice. You toss it up and let it roll to see what number it lands on. You have a little effect on its outcome, but it’s mostly by chance. This is what life throws at you, sometimes. Unexpected things, cruel circumstances. Life is unfair, me boy, but that can be okay. From trials comes growth.”

“I see, Ma. Truly.”

The boy could envision her smiling. “Do you, Love?”

“Yes. Fate is uncertain, but that can be good, too. It… it can help you learn. It helped me learn about itself through you... dying.”

“Mm, that’s me boy.”

Another pause. He wished desperately to hug her, see her. A ghost of her cinnamon scent drifted by, a fading, soft laugh, too. “I love you, Ma.”

She hummed gently. “I love you, too. Did I answer your question well enough?”

“Yes. You did.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Take care of yourself, eat well, work hard. Our neighbors– remember them?– they called me earlier offering to have you for the time being. Till you get a bit stronger, yes? You know I be trusting only the good fellows, and they’ve always been so kind to us. You good with that?”

“Yes, Ma.”

She sighed again. Her voice grew more tender. “You’re so wonderful, Love, a little drop of sunlight. Use that voice of yours, okay? Don’t be afraid to speak up. And call me whenever you need to. They’ll be free until you come of age… But don’t be worrying about that.” 

“Okay.” The boy felt sad. The empty feeling in his arms seemed to expand the longer he talked to her. “I miss you, Ma, really. W-why can’t you come back?”

“Oh, me dear boy. I miss you, too, I miss you much. Fiercely, dearly, so. But take heart, I’m just a call away, remember.”

“Yes, Ma, I will. I love you.”

“I love you,” she whispered.

The line went dead. The static was deafening. 

The boy tucked the telephone back into its little nook. He stood there for a bit, replaying his encounter with his deceased mum. He felt almost vacant without her, like a half of him had been carved away by a woodworker. Gently scraped out, to where the veins and sun-constellations in him had all but gone. And yet, he decided, then, that it was best to carry on. Ma was only a call away, after all. 

The golden slot spat out the ticket into his hand. He crumpled it up, shoving it into his pocket before opening the pink phone-booth’s door. (He still thought that pink was rather unfitting of a choice. But maybe not, considering he was able to talk with his Ma. Like fate then- unfitting but fitting at the same time.)

Nobody else was making a call; the hall was damp and dark and uncertain. Uncertainty could be a good thing, though, the boy remembered. So, he walked down the hall, passed the sleeping receptionist, and made his way outside. The London air was smoggy and smelled of– perhaps fate? If fate had the curious aroma of clementines, churros, and spice. He still liked the countryside better, but the aromatic fate-scent was quite pleasant. It boosted his courage, and he thought maybe it would be okay to stay in the city where the nice neighbors now lived. If Ma and fate had said so, then why not?