My best friend perished in a vehicle crash 7 years ago. No one found her phone. A SMS from her number arrived last night. A photo of us giggling during her 16th birthday. I typed “Who is this?” We saw 3 dots. I froze when told, “Check your”
Looking at the message, my palms trembled. “Check your…” I waited but got nothing. Typing halted. I threw my locked phone on the bed like it was burning me.
Unable to sleep. My imagination raced through various possibilities, including a nasty joke, swindle, or other possibilities. I couldn’t shake my gut instinct. Nobody had that photo online. She took it with her phone, so no one else had it. Only two of us that day.
At 2:34 AM, curiosity won. I grabbed my phone again. The message remained. I enlarged the shot. The mirror behind us showed a reflection I hadn’t observed before. A date. Her bedroom mirror contained a sticky note. Her handwriting read: “July 5 – library box.”
Catching my breath. July 5 was following week.
In high school, “library box” was our secret code. We kept small notes in a free community library stand at Elm and Greystone. We termed it a “time capsule.” We never discovered it, nor did our parents.
