The Last Notification

The first notification came three nights after the funeral.

3:17 AM.

I remember the time because I hadn’t been sleeping much. Grief does that—it turns your nights into long, hollow corridors where every thought echoes too loudly.

My phone buzzed against the nightstand.

I almost ignored it.

Almost.

But something about the sound—sharp, deliberate—cut through the fog in my head.

I reached for it.

And froze.

1 New Message.

From: Maya 💛

My stomach dropped so suddenly it felt like I’d missed a step on a staircase.

That wasn’t possible.

Maya was dead.

I had seen her lowered into the ground myself, her mother screaming, her father gripping the edge of the casket like he could still pull her back.

My hands started shaking.

It had to be a glitch.

Or someone using her phone.

Or—

I opened the message.

“I’m here.”

That was it.

No emoji. No context. Just two words.

My breath came out in a thin, shaky line.

I stared at the screen for a long time, waiting for another message.

Nothing came.

Finally, I typed:

Who is this?

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

Then disappeared.

Then appeared again.

My heart hammered so loudly I could hear it in my ears.

Another message came through.

“You know me.”

I dropped the phone.

It hit the floor with a dull crack, the screen still glowing.

“No,” I whispered, backing away like it could reach out and grab me. “No, no, no.”

I didn’t pick it up again that night.

⸻

The next morning, I convinced myself it was a prank.

Someone must have gotten access to Maya’s phone. Maybe her number hadn’t been disconnected yet. Maybe—

Maybe grief was making me stupid.

I almost believed it.

Until the second notification came.

3:17 AM.

Exactly.

My phone buzzed again, louder this time, like it knew I was waiting.

I stared at it from across the room.

Then, slowly, I stood up and walked over.

Another message.

“Why didn’t you answer?”

My chest tightened.

I typed back before I could stop myself.

Who is this? This isn’t funny.

The reply came immediately.

“You left me.”

A cold wave washed over me.

“I didn’t,” I said out loud, even though no one was there. “I didn’t leave you.”

But the truth pressed in, heavy and suffocating.

The night Maya died… I had left.

We’d been at a party. Loud music, cheap drinks, too many people. Maya wanted to stay longer.

I didn’t.

We argued.

I left her there.

She died on the way home.

A car accident.

At least, that’s what everyone said.

My phone buzzed again.

“I waited for you.”

My throat closed.

Stop it, I typed. This isn’t her.

The typing bubble lingered longer this time.

Like it was thinking.

Watching.

Then:

“Look outside.”

Every instinct screamed at me not to.

I stood there, frozen, my reflection staring back at me from the dark window.

Slowly, against my better judgment, I stepped closer.

The street outside was empty.

Silent.

Still.

I let out a shaky breath.

“This is stupid,” I muttered.

Then my phone buzzed again.

“Wrong window.”

⸻

By the third night, I didn’t even pretend it was a prank anymore.

I was waiting.

3:16 AM.

My phone in my hand.

The room suffocatingly quiet.

Then—

Buzz.

3:17.

“Closer now.”

My entire body went cold.

What do you want? I typed.

The response came slower this time.

Deliberate.

“To see you.”

A soft creak echoed somewhere in the apartment.

I froze.

I lived alone.

Another message.

“Why are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding,” I whispered, even as I pulled my knees up onto the couch.

The lights flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then steadied.

My phone buzzed again.

“I can hear you breathing.”

Something moved in the hallway.

A shadow.

Too quick to fully see.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

“Maya?” I said, my voice breaking despite everything.

Silence.

Then—

A faint sound.

Like footsteps.

Slow.

Dragging.

Coming from the direction of my bedroom.

I stared down the hallway, my pulse roaring in my ears.

My phone buzzed one last time.

“I’m here.”

The bedroom door creaked open.

Just a few inches.

Darkness spilling out from inside like something alive.

I couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t move.

A shape stood in the doorway.

Not fully visible.

But wrong.

Too still.

Too… twisted.

“Maya?” I whispered.

The figure tilted its head.

And for a moment—just a moment—I saw her face.

Broken.

Eyes too wide.

Smile stretched too far.

My phone slipped from my fingers.

The screen lit up as it hit the floor.

One final message.

“You weren’t supposed to leave me alone.”

The figure stepped forward.

And the lights went out.

⸻

They found my phone the next day.

Cracked screen.

Dozens of unread messages.

All sent at 3:17 AM.

All from Maya.

But the last one…

The last one wasn’t sent to me.

It was sent from my phone.

To everyone in my contacts.

Just three words.

“I’m not alone.”