You don’t have to look at the phone to know what the time it is. If the phone is ringing, it’s 4:44. Afternoon and night, it doesn’t matter. You don’t know why you bother to put it on silent; it always rings anyway. An airy chime that’s only moderately more tolerable than the default ringtone cutting through the night.

It’s 4:44 a.m. and you are still awake.

Your finger hovers over the green circle. You don’t know why you bother. If you pick up you know what will happen. You will say something. “Hello,” or “What the fuck do you want?” are your usual answers. Except one memorable time you answered with “City Morgue: You stab’em, we slab’em.” No one laughs at that one except you. There was still nothing. Just a hallow silence. You know what will happen; Yet, you are still inclined to answer, yet tonight—the eerie hush before dawn. You think it might be different.

“Honestly, if you’re not going to say anything I’m not going to keep answering.” You snap. It’s a far cry from your usual tentative hello.

There’s a rich chuckle. The voice sounds old and young all at once, comforting and warm.

“Mo,” it’s your nickname. The one your mother called you before she died when you were eight. Nearly twenty years later, you aren’t sure if you are awake or hallucinating a memory. It steals the breath from your chest.

“Mama…?” Your tone drops to something as feeble as a baby deer. Has it been her every call?

There’s a long pause. It’s so silent, you aren’t sure you’re breathing. You know you don’t hear her breathing. It would be more concerning to you if you did.

“Don’t give up. And for God’s sake, get some sleep.”

Tears prick your eyes, but for the first time in months you laugh. Really laugh.

“Yeah I don’t take life advice from dead people.” You say with a watery smile.

She laughs. “I love you.”

You don’t say it back. You can’t. You loved her—of course, you did. She was your mother— but you didn’t really know her. Not as a person, not outside of people’s stories of her.

“I miss you..” It hurts to admit but soothes something in your chest to get the words out even if your tears spill over.

“I love you, Mo.”

“Mama…”

“I love you, Mo.”

You have so many questions. You part your lips to say something else, anything else but you don’t even know where to start. If she is dead, how is she talking to you? Where is she? What’s the cell reception like from the pearly gates. You don’t know what question to ask first but just as you fix your mouth to ask any one of them—

the line cuts out.

Your phone reads 4:45 a.m. with one recent call from an unknown number.