The husband, recently widowed, sat dazed in front of the altar, his eyes red from crying so much. His wife had died suddenly of a heart attack. In the midst of the pain and chaos of the funeral, he took care of everything: receiving visitors, organizing the procedures, preparing the burial. He could barely cope with his own tiredness.

On the morning of the funeral, he suddenly realized that his phone had disappeared. He searched everywhere, asked the relatives, but no one knew anything. “I must have left it in some corner,” he thought, and tried to concentrate on the ceremony. The coffin was sealed and taken to the cemetery. Even with a broken heart, she forced herself to stay strong for her daughter.

That night, when only he and the girl were left in the cold house, he received a message from his own number:

“Love, I’m still here. Don’t let them fool you.”

He froze, cold sweat running down his back. Then he remembered: perhaps the phone had fallen into the coffin, at that moment when he bent down to see his wife for the last time, just before it was sealed.

But who could send that message? His wife was dead, there was no doubt about that: the doctor had confirmed it, and the death certificate was signed.

Trembling, he wrote back,
“Is that really you?”

The answer came immediately:
“Believe me. I didn’t die of a heart attack. They poisoned me.”

The man felt the ground disappear beneath his feet. His wife, so good, how could there be anyone who wanted to harm her?

He asked again, sweating hands,
“Who did it?”

The message appeared on the screen, brief and chilling:
“A relative… within the same house.”

He looked around, the empty room, the flickering candle on the altar. His daughter slept in the room. Who could have done it? The brother-in-law? A relative greedy for inheritance?

Then another message came:
“Open the wooden crate… you will understand.”

He ran to the cabinet where he kept documents. He opened the drawer with trembling hands. Under some papers he found a bottle of pills, with the label torn off, and only a few white pills inside.

He remembered the last night: his wife’s cousin had brought him a glass of warm milk. She drank it… and less than an hour later the crisis that ended his life began.

The man collapsed, drenched in sweat. A last message lit up the screen:
“Take care of our daughter. Don’t let her be next.”

He knelt on the floor, hugging the phone, tears welling up. Outside, the wind whistled through the cracks of the window, and the flame of the candle flickered as if someone invisible were there.

In the depths of his heart, he knew that his wife was guiding him from the afterlife.

At dawn, he took the jar and the phone with the messages to the police. The investigation revealed the truth: his wife’s cousin had plotted everything out of greed towards the inheritance.

On the day of the trial, he remained with his daughter at the entrance to the courthouse. The sky was blue, with white clouds floating softly, as if someone was smiling from above.

He whispered to the wind,
“I’ll raise our daughter, I’ll walk the rest of the way for you.”

And in his heart he heard her voice, clear and loving:
“I am still here, forever.”