The message

It was a calm winter evening, the kind that wrapped the world in silence. Snow drifted steadily from the sky, settling in soft white layers over the street outside. Inside the house, the only sound came from the gentle hum of the heater and the occasional creak of settling wood. Jessica sat alone in her parents’ living room, her arms wrapped loosely around herself.

Mr. and Mrs. Elliot’s four-bedroom house—where she and her sister Jane had grown up, where laughter, family gatherings, playdates, first loves, and first heartbreaks had once filled every corner—now felt hollow. Shadows gathered in the corners, and the quiet pressed against her chest like a weight. Her father had passed away just a week earlier. Her mother, a devoted wife and parent, simply couldn’t cope with the loss; to protect her sanity, the sisters and relatives agreed she would stay with Jane, surrounded by her grandchildren and the distraction of holiday preparations.

But twenty-five-year-old Jessica, a freelancer working for a data-analysis company, chose to remain in her childhood home. She told herself she was strong enough to handle the emptiness. Someone had to look after their two cats, Villain and Sugar—names Jane’s little boy had proudly invented, much to the grandparents’ amusement.

Jessica’s mind drifted back to the moment everything changed. When the call came from her mother, she had been sitting in a café with a friend, listening to him enthusiastically describe the car he wanted to buy. She froze mid-sip, paralyzed, unable to speak. Her friend had to gently tap her arm to bring her back. Her father had died suddenly, peacefully, in his sleep. They had all known it was coming, even though no one dared say it aloud. Every Sunday they gathered for Mrs. Elliot’s legendary breakfast—French toast, pancakes, fried bacon, pastries, apple pie—and for months, no one mentioned Mr. Elliot’s health. No one told him to eat differently. They all pretended everything was fine, despite the doctor’s warnings.

Jessica couldn’t forget the last evening she spent with him. Jane had arranged a date night with her husband and left her children—Frank and Lilly—with their grandparents. Jessica came to help. After Mrs. Elliot tucked the children in and Jessica finished reading their bedtime story, she planned to settle on the couch and watch her favorite show. But her father called her.

“Jessica, let’s spend some time together,” he said warmly, patting the seat beside him on the very couch she sat on now.

Jessica hesitated only a second before joining him. “Sure, Dad.”

“All my retiree club friends are on social media,” he said, pulling out his phone. “Can you make me an account?”

“No way, Dad. Please don’t become a social-media addict,” she teased, rolling her eyes.

“I want a social-media account,” he repeated, sounding just like a child begging for a new toy.

“Fine. But don’t tell Mom—or anyone—who set it up for you.”

After a long and painfully slow attempt to teach him how to use the app, Jessica finally felt ready for bed.

“Let’s have a big juicy burger,” Mr. Elliot said suddenly, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Dad…” she sighed. “I want you to live a long life.”

“I want to enjoy whatever time I have left,” he replied. “I’m too old to suffer through steamed broccoli and buckwheat your mother thinks I’m eating.” He chuckled. “Thanks to old grumpy Joe, I know all the best burger places in town.”

“That sneaky old Joe,” Jessica said, slapping her knee. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

“Snitches get stitches,” her father joked.

“Now order two burgers, everything fries, and lemonades.”

“What about Mom?” she asked, scrolling through the delivery app.

“Your mother is fast asleep after cooking mountains of food for the kids.”

She ordered exactly what he wanted. They ate and laughed, talked about retiree-club gossip, discussed Jessica’s future plans, and watched her favorite show—the one where bakers disguised cakes as everyday objects. Mr. Elliot was stunned.

“These people know what they’re doing,” he said with wide eyes. “I would wear that shoe without even realizing it was cake.”

But later that night, he had another episode of shortness of breath, and Mrs. Elliot called emergency services. Jane and her husband stayed with the children while Jessica and her mother followed the ambulance. Jessica’s guilt that night was unbearable. After he was discharged, Mr. Elliot lived only three more days.

Back in the present, Jessica wiped her tears, remembering his face during the attack—his eyes wide, his skin flushed red, struggling for air. Her body trembled. Then came a knock at the door.

She froze. Maybe it was her imagination. She reached for a tissue with shaking hands. The bell rang again—twice. Ding-dong. Ding-dong.

“For God’s sake,” Jessica muttered, checking her watch. It was eight p.m. She took a few steadying breaths and opened the door.

Joe stood there, wrapped in a thick scarf, his nose red from the cold. “Good evening, Jessica,” he said softly. “You’ve been crying.”

“Oh…” Jessica swallowed, inhaling the crisp air that suddenly made her feel slightly calmer. “Do you want to come in?”

“No. Actually, there’s a reason I came.” His breath puffed in the cold air.

Jessica waited silently, shivering in her T-shirt and track pants.

“Oliver said you wouldn’t open your social media for a while after his… departure,” Joe said quickly. “So I had to come tell you to check it. He sent you something.”

“What?” Jessica stared at him, stunned.

“That’s it. Have a good evening—and don’t catch a cold,” Joe said, turning to leave.

Jessica closed the door slowly and returned to the sofa. Her phone lay on the coffee table. With trembling fingers, she opened her account. There were the usual photos and messages from friends and colleagues. And then—one notification:

Oliver Elliot has sent you a message.

Jessica stared at it for a long moment, unable to breathe. She stood up, paced the living room, sat again. Finally, she forced herself to tap the notification.

A selfie of her father appeared on the screen—smiling, warm, unmistakably him.

Underneath was his message:

“Don’t blame yourself for what happened. I would have eaten a burger anyway, but I had a great time with you. You were always the wise one, and I remember our walks in the park when you asked me every question about history. You’ll always be in my heart, no matter what physical state my soul takes.

I love you, my little Jessica. Love life. Enjoy every moment. And ask Sam out. That guy is shy—he'll need sixty years to ask you first. But he likes you. Believe old Oliver. I’ve lived some life and know a few things.”

That was it.

Jessica’s eyes filled again, but this time her tears were soft, peaceful. She pressed her lips to the screen and whispered, “Thank you, Dad.”

Then she opened her messages. Sam had written to her many times, offering comfort. She typed:

“Hi Sam, thank you so much for being so caring. It means a lot to me.”

Her eyes were still wet, but her heart—finally—felt calm.