The phone buzzed against the floor. Dean ignored it at first. Then picked it up when the silence returned.
1 New Voicemail
He let it play.
His brother's voice came through, tired, like he hadn't slept. No anger. Just that dull, scraped-out tone people get when they've already said the words too many times.
> "Dean. Mom's dead. It happened last night. They think it was a heart attack. It was fast. She collapsed in the kitchen. I found her. She was just... gone."
"The funeral's next Thursday. It's at St. Patrick's, uptown. I'm not gonna beg you to come, but... yeah. You should probably know."
A pause.
> "She kept your picture. I didn't think she would, but... it was on the fridge. That one from, like, five years ago. You looked like shit in it. Same as now, I guess."
Click.
Dean put the phone down face-down on the floor.
It didn't feel real. But it didn't feel fake either. It just felt like nothing.
He leaned back against the wall. Stared at the ceiling. There was a crack running right through the center. It looked deeper today.
He closed his eyes.
And then—
He cried.
Quietly, at first. Just a sting in the throat. A squeeze behind the eyes. Then it came, all at once, his shoulders twitching, face buried in the crook of his arm.
He cried harder than he remembered being able to.
But he didn't know why.
It wasn't love. He didn't love her. She'd never given him a reason to.
She used to say, "You were born wrong."
She said it when he got bad grades. When he broke the rules. When he cried too much.
He learned to stop crying for her a long time ago.
So why now?
Why here?
Why this?
The tears stopped eventually. They always do. He sat on the mattress, head spinning. The room was too quiet. The rain had stopped. The city outside kept moving.
The funeral was in seven days.
He didn't know if he'd go.
He didn't know what he'd wear.
He didn't know if anyone would care.
But he knew this:
She was gone.
And something in him went with her.
[END]