In the  San Miguel del Río neighborhood , a dusty corner of the state of  Puebla , everyone knew each other by the sound of their footsteps. The mere sound of sandals was enough to tell who was heading to the corner store or to Mass. Among these quiet souls lived  Doña Luz , an eighty-five-year-old woman, petite, with white hair tied back in a bun and a tired but serene gaze.

She had outlived almost all of her family. Her husband, Don Emiliano, died young, and her only son,  Tomás , was killed in the Chiapas war in the 1990s. Her youngest daughter, who had married a man from Veracruz, died in a bus accident years later. Since then, Doña Luz lived alone in her little adobe house, accompanied by her cat, “Chispa,” and an old radio that still played boleros in a broken voice.

Everything was peaceful until that May.  Don Ernesto , the owner of the small shop and a phone recharge agent, began to notice something strange.
Every Tuesday morning, Doña Luz arrived punctually, wearing her blue shawl and carrying a small cloth bag over her shoulder. She bought  more than twenty cell phone chips  —cheap SIM cards, the kind that only cost a few dozen pesos.

At first, Don Ernesto thought perhaps someone was deceiving her. But weeks went by and she continued shopping, punctually, as if it were part of a ritual.

One day, she couldn’t contain her curiosity and asked him:

—Mrs. Luz, why do you want so many cards, if you don’t even use a cell phone?

She smiled, revealing worn teeth and glassy eyes:

—To call my boys, son. So they don’t forget their mother.

Don Ernesto felt a chill. Everyone in the village knew that she had no one left.

A few days later, while sweeping in front of his shop, Ernesto saw her sitting on the sidewalk across the street. The old woman held an  old black Nokia in her hands , slowly dialing number after number. But she didn’t speak.
She just sat still, the phone pressed to her ear, and after a while she lowered it, smiled gently, and murmured:

—I did call you today, son. Can you hear me?

Ernesto felt a tightness in his chest. That same afternoon, he told  Don Felipe , the block leader, what he had seen. As a precaution, they decided to notify the municipal police. They feared someone might use his name to register hundreds of phone lines and commit fraud.

The next day, two officers arrived at the old woman’s humble home. The gate was ajar. Inside, the whitewashed walls were covered with religious images and a small altar with withered flowers.
On a wooden table lay  piles of empty chip boxes , carefully opened, stacked next to a notebook filled with numbers written in shaky handwriting.

One of the officers asked in a friendly voice:

—Ma’am, did you buy these cards? What do you use them for?

Doña Luz smiled tenderly and pointed to a black and white portrait that presided over the altar: a young man in military uniform, beret on his head and a firm smile.

“That’s Tomás… my boy. When he went to war, he called me every week from different numbers. But one day, he just stopped calling. I keep calling him. Every new SIM card is another glimmer of hope. Maybe one of those numbers is still ringing wherever he is…”

The house fell silent. Only the ticking of the wall clock could be heard.
She picked up the telephone and, with trembling hands, dialed a sequence of digits.

—Look, this was the last number from which you called me. I try every week. Maybe one day… you’ll answer.

A tear slowly rolled down her cheek.

In the notebook, next to each number, he had carefully noted:
“Day I called my son – no one answered.”

One of the police officers, moved, asked in a low voice:
“And has anyone ever… answered you?”

Doña Luz smiled.
—Yes. In my dreams. He says the sky has a bad signal, but that he hears me from time to time.

Weeks later, one September morning, Don Ernesto opened his shop and saw Doña Luz’s small muslin bag on the counter. Inside was a carefully folded note:

“Thank you, son. I don’t need any more SIM cards.
I finally managed to get in touch with them.
I’m going to meet with Tomás and his father.
—Luz María.”

That same afternoon, the neighbors found her lying in bed, with a peaceful smile, the rosary between her fingers and the old Nokia phone on her chest.
On the screen, an impossible message still shone:
“Calling… Tomás.”

The phone log showed that the call had  connected for three seconds .
On the other end, there was no number. But something—no one knows what—answered.

Moved by his memory, the residents of San Miguel del Río pooled their money to place a simple headstone in front of his house. On it they inscribed:

Doña Luz María García –
the mother who kept calling until someone answered.

And every Tuesday, when the doorbell rings at Don Ernesto’s little shop, some claim to hear, amidst the buzzing of the telephone wires, a soft voice saying:

“Tomás… can you hear me now, son?”