Is Sarah there?
Wrong Number
A very early draft of this was mistakenly published as “Wrong Number” on Friday. This is the completed story, almost rewritten from scratch because of how much I hated the first draft.
Paid subscribers can find the narration here.
The glass was etched with scribbled names; the air smelled of stale smoke. I didn’t mind.
Ring. Ring.
A sharp, mechanical trill sliced through the humid evening.
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice spoke, breathless, muffled as if through a thick scarf.
“Is Sarah there?”
“Tell her the garden is ready.
Tell her it’s safe to venture out
Tell her daddy is gone.”
“There’s no Sarah here,” I said. I mashed my forehead against the metallic mouth of the coin slot. “This is a public booth on 4th and Main. You have the wrong—”
Click.
I stayed in the booth for an hour, watching the street. People drifting past, chins tipped to chests, fixed on the flinty pavement. No one looked at me. No one looked at each other.
Ring. Ring.
A man’s voice spoke, thick with a heavy, wet cough.
“I know you’re there,
I’m not asking for a miracle.
I just wanted to say I am sorry about the furnace.
And the way I left.
The wind is howling at me, Lou
Is it cold there?”
“I’m not Lou,” I said, watching a businessman check his watch and step over a puddle. “But it’s freezing—”
Click.
Three minutes passed.
Ring. Ring.
I snatched the receiver so hard it bruised my palm.
“Hello?” I whispered.
A child’s voice spoke, small, bright, like it was coming from a place with a fireplace and a ticking clock.
“It’s me,
I finished my drawing.
I used the blue for the sky
like you told me.”
I closed my eyes. I was sitting on a rug, smelling of oak and old orange crayons. Feeling the warmth of a small hand on mine.
"That’s... that’s wonderful."
The voice spoke, tick-tock.
"Are you coming home soon?
The moon is rising now."
I looked at the moon. I nodded. I wanted to tell the child I was just around the corner, that I’d be there to tuck them in.
“I think...” I swallowed hard, the air stinging my throat. “I think you have the wrong—”
Click.
Thanks for reading. This story was based on a prompt set out by Labyrinthia Mythweaver. Which was to tell a story inspired by the image seen here:
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That has to be most harrowing job or position to be in. ☠️ And the worst loneliness, unable to both comfort someone and feel the warmth they might offer in return.
Wow this was intense, you have such a great style of writing !!