On the Other End

Every night at 11:47, the phone rang.

Jeff never answered it on the first ring. He let it ring twice, always twice, the way he’d been trained. On the third ring, he picked up and said, “Emergency response. What’s your location?”

Sometimes there was screaming. Sometimes crying. Sometimes just breathing, fast and panicked, like the caller was running out of air and hoped Jeff had some to spare.

He took the calls calmly. He followed the script. He stayed on the line until help arrived or until the line went dead.

That was the job.

Tonight felt heavier. The building was too quiet. The vending machine down the hall was broken, so there was no hum, no clatter, nothing to cut through the silence. Just Jeff, the desk, and the phone.

At 11:47, it rang.

He waited. One ring. Two.

On the third ring, he picked up. “Emergency response. What’s your location?”

Silence.

“Hello?” Jeff said. “If you can hear me, help is available.”

A voice finally came through. Calm. Familiar.

“I don’t know where I am,” the caller said.

Jeff's stomach tightened. “That’s okay. We can figure it out. Are you in danger right now?”

“Yes,” the voice said. “I think I always have been.”

Jeff pulled up the call trace. Nothing. No signal source. That wasn’t unusual. Some calls slipped through the cracks.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

A pause. Then, “Jeff.”

His hand froze on the keyboard.

“That’s my name,” Jeff said.

“I know,” the caller replied.

Jeff laughed once, sharp and nervous. “Okay. Someone’s messing around. This line is for emergencies.”

“I’m calling about one,” the voice said. “About you.”

Jeff swallowed. “Where are you calling from?”

“From the other side of this desk.”

The lights flickered.

Jeff pushed back his chair and stood. The room was empty. Same as always. Beige walls. Old carpet. No mirrors. No windows.

“You sound tired,” the caller continued. “You always do, by the end.”

“End of what?” Jeff asked.

“Your shift.”

The call timer on Jeff's screen rolled past twelve minutes. That never happened. Calls ended quickly, one way or another.

“Listen,” Jeff said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “If you’re in danger, I need you to focus. Tell me what you see.”

“I see a man who thinks he’s helping,” the caller said. “I see him answering phones so he doesn’t have to answer anything else.”

Jeff's chest burned. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you don’t remember the first call you ever took,” the voice said. “I know you don’t remember the fire.”

Images slammed into Jeff's mind. Heat. Smoke. A door he couldn’t open. A phone ringing somewhere far away.

“I know,” the caller went on, “that you were on the other end once. And no one stayed on the line.”

Jeff's knees buckled. He sank back into the chair.

“That’s not possible,” he whispered. “I’m here. I’ve been here for years.”

“Yes,” the voice said gently. “You have.”

The monitors around Jeff flickered. Instead of call logs, they showed the same entry repeated again and again.

INCOMING CALL – JEFF W. STATUS- UNRESOLVED.

“You’re not answering emergencies,” the caller said. “You are the emergency.”

Jeff shook his head. “Then why am I here?”

“Because you didn’t make it out,” the voice said. “And this is what your mind built instead of stopping.”

The phone on the desk began to ring. Not the one Jeff was holding. Another one. Then another. The sound multiplied, filling the room.

“I can help people,” Jeff said desperately. “I do help people.”

“You help yourself stay,” the caller replied. “Every call ends before the truth reaches you. Every night resets.”

Jeff closed his eyes. The ringing grew louder.

“What happens if I hang up?” he asked.

The voice hesitated for the first time.

“You wake up,” it said. “Or you stop. I don’t know which.”

Jeff looked at the phone in his hand. The screen showed the caller ID clearly now.

CALLER- JEFF W.

“Why are you telling me this?” Jeff asked.

“Because this is my last shift,” the voice said. “And it’s yours, too.”

The ringing stopped. The room went still.

Jeff took a breath. Then another.

He placed the receiver back in its cradle.

The lights went out.

For the first time, the phone did not ring again.

Darkness didn’t feel like sleep.

It felt like falling through a thought you almost understood.

Jeff expected pain. Or nothing. Instead, he heard a sound so ordinary it confused him.

A beep.

Slow. Steady.

He opened his eyes.

White ceiling. Cracked tile. A stain shaped like a continent he couldn’t name. Fluorescent light buzzing softly, like it had been on too long.

Another beep.

He turned his head. The movement felt heavy, like dragging himself through wet sand. To his right, a heart monitor. To his left, a woman sitting in a chair, asleep with her chin on her chest and a paper cup crushed in her hand.

She stirred when he moved.

Her eyes snapped open. Red-rimmed. Hopeful, but cautious, like she’d been disappointed too many times to trust it.

“Jeff?” she said.

His throat was dry. “I think,” he said slowly, “I answered the phone.”

She laughed, then covered her mouth as tears spilled out. She stood too fast, nearly knocking over the chair.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “You’re awake.”

Memories came in fragments. Not the fire yet. Not fully. But the sound of alarms. The smell of smoke. A phone ringing somewhere he couldn’t reach.

“How long?” Jeff asked.

She wiped her face. “Six weeks. They said… they didn’t know if you’d ever—” She stopped herself. Took a breath. “You saved three people before the ceiling collapsed.”

Jeff closed his eyes.

Six weeks. Not years.

The room felt wrong. Too solid. Too real. The opposite of the call center. No endless ringing. No reset.

“What time is it?” he asked.

She glanced at her watch. “Almost midnight.”

His eyes snapped open. His pulse spiked. “No,” he said. “Something’s supposed to—”

The monitor beeped again. Calm. Regular.

Nothing rang.

A doctor came later. Then a nurse. Questions. Simple ones. Jeff answered most of them. Avoided others. He didn’t mention the desk, or the phones, or the voice that sounded exactly like him.

Eventually, the room quieted again.

His sister fell asleep in the chair, exhaustion finally winning.

Jeff stared at the ceiling.

For the first time, the silence didn’t feel like it was waiting for him to fail.

He let himself believe it was over.

Then, faintly, from somewhere down the hall, he heard it.

A phone ringing.

Once.

Twice.

Jeff's breath caught.

On the third ring, it stopped.

A moment passed.

Then, very quietly, his heart monitor skipped a beat.

And in the silence that followed, Jeff realized the worst truth of all.

He hadn’t been answering calls because he was trapped.

He had been answering them because someone else was.

And now, whoever had been holding the line for him had finally let go.