They say the past is gone, but sometimes it finds a way to reach back for you. Last night, she picked up the phone. The voice on the other end didn’t belong to this world. It came from 1979.
It began with a storm. Rain hammered against the windows of her old apartment, unrelenting. She was alone—until the phone rang. No caller ID, just that sharp, old-fashioned ring, like something dragged out of another time. She hesitated, then answered.
A woman’s voice whispered, “Hello? Is this Margaret?”
The sound was fragile, breaking through static like it had traveled through dust and years.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I think you have the wrong number.”
But the voice didn’t stop. It spoke of things no stranger could know—her childhood home, the creek behind it, the red bicycle she lost when she was nine. Her breath caught.
“How do you know this?” she asked.
Silence. Then, the woman’s voice trembled.
“Because, Margaret… you’re my sister. And I’m calling from 1979.”
The line crackled violently and went dead. She stared at the phone, her heart racing. She never had a sister—or at least, not one alive.
And in the stillness, she swore she heard it again… that faint, old-fashioned ring, beginning to sound once more.
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