Daemon

The Caller ID says “Unknown” but I know your ring. Twenty years dead and still you call. They found my number scrawled a dozen times on your wall. Hello? Intently, I listen, but it’s useless. There was a time when I could hear your faint voice wavering, maybe decipher a few incoherent words. But in time, static claimed the air and cell phones gobbled up the ether. Click. I push the button: “You have NO new messages.”