It was usual. The phone buzzed at 1:30. Then again at 2:17. Once more at 7:30. I was busy— buried in the weight of the world. Maybe in a meeting, maybe in a bundle of files, maybe just resting. It was usual, still. She always called, asked the same: "How are you?" "Are you eating on time?" "Are you sleeping enough?" I thought it was alright to miss it sometimes. She would understand. She always did. "I’ll call her later," I told myself. Maybe she just wanted to remind me to take my meds, or ask me to come visit. I will. Later. But later, there was no call. Only silence. Three missed calls. The kind of silence that echoes. I’m tired, I’ll call her tomorrow, I reminded myself. The next day, I got another call. But it wasn’t her. It was my sister— her breathing uneven. Her voice cracked. Since that moment, time hasn’t felt the same. Now, I keep waiting for her calls. But she doesn’t call anymore. All I have left are three voicemails. I play them again and again. My favorite is the one where she says: "It’s nothing much... just missed you. Wanted to hear your voice. Can you call me once?" I do. I do. I call her a million times. She never answers anymore. When once, she would pick up before the first ring. I should have answered. Just three calls. Three small calls— and I missed them all. Now I have three voicemails. And a silence I can’t fill. I’m sorry, Mom. Please… call me. I miss you. I want to hear your voice. I want to say I love you. I love you, Mom. I’m so, so sorry. All I have now is the sound of you in three voicemails. And the ghost of three missed calls.