“It’s been six months since I lost Adam. I haven’t moved his shoes from the doorway. I haven’t deleted his number. I just… can’t.

One night, the grief was too much to bear. I called his phone just to hear his voice again.

‘Hey, it’s Adam. Can’t pick up right now, but leave a message!’

Hearing that familiar tone, I broke down. I sobbed into the silence, whispering, “I miss you. I don’t know how to live without you.”

The next morning, my phone rang.

Adam’s number.

I froze. My heart was pounding in my chest as I picked up, not even sure what I was hoping for. There was silence at first. Then, a small, timid voice:

“Hello? Are you the lady who leaves messages for my dad?”

I could barely breathe.

Turns out, the number had been reassigned to a little boy named Toby. His dad had passed away too.

—

I didn’t know what to say at first. I just sat there, stunned, listening to this tiny voice breathing on the other end of the line.

“I’m sorry,” I finally said, my voice shaking. “I… I didn’t know the number had been reassigned.”

There was a pause. Then the boy whispered, “It’s okay. I like hearing your messages.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“You… you listened?”

“Yeah. You sounded really sad. Like my mom.”

That broke me all over again.

From that day, I didn’t call the number again. I didn’t want to intrude on their grief. But a week later, I got another call.

“Hi… it’s Toby.”

He called me.

“Hi, Toby,” I said softly.

“I was wondering if maybe you wanted to talk. You sound lonely too.”

And so it began.

—

Our calls turned into a weekly thing. Every Sunday afternoon, like clockwork.

Toby would tell me about his day, his new puppy named Rusty, his favorite cereal, how he hated math but loved drawing. He told me his mom cried a lot when she thought he wasn’t looking. That he missed his dad most at night, when it got quiet.

I told him about Adam. How he made the worst pancakes but always insisted they were “gourmet.” How he danced badly in the kitchen and sang like no one was listening. How we used to sit on the porch and dream about growing old together.

We didn’t dwell too long on the sadness. We just… talked. Two people trying to fill the silence.

One Sunday, Toby asked, “Did you ever get to say goodbye to Adam?”

The question hit me like a wave. “No,” I whispered. “It was sudden. There was no time.”

“Me neither,” he said. “My dad left for work and never came back. I didn’t get to tell him I was sorry for breaking his model airplane.”

My heart ached for him.

That night, I wrote Adam a letter. Not an email. A real letter. I poured everything into it — the regrets, the love, the anger, the things left unsaid. I folded it, sealed it, and tucked it into his favorite book on the shelf.

I slept better that night than I had in months.

—

A few weeks later, Toby asked if we could meet.

“I asked my mom,” he said. “She said maybe.”

So I spoke to his mother — Rachel. She was cautious, as any mother would be. But after hearing our story, she agreed to meet at a local park.

When I first saw Toby, he ran straight into my arms. Like we already knew each other.

Rachel was kind, quiet, and tired in a way I recognized all too well. We talked while Toby played in the grass with Rusty.

“He looks forward to your calls,” she told me. “You’ve helped him more than you know.”

Funny thing is, he helped me too.

—

We started seeing each other more. Sunday calls turned into park visits, and eventually, dinners. I’d bring over lasagna (Adam’s favorite recipe, burned on the edges the way he weirdly liked it), and Toby would show me his newest crayon masterpieces.

One night, Rachel and I sat on the porch, watching Toby chase fireflies.

“I don’t know what we would’ve done without you,” she said.

I looked at her and smiled. “I think we’re all helping each other.”

She nodded. “It still hurts though. Every day.”

“I know,” I said. “But somehow, this makes it hurt a little less.”

—

It’s been a year now since that first call. Adam’s shoes are still in the hallway. But now, beside them are tiny muddy sneakers. Rusty likes to chew on one of Adam’s old slippers — I think Adam would’ve laughed at that.

I don’t cry as much anymore. Not because I miss Adam less, but because I’ve found a way to carry him with me without being crushed.

Toby calls me “Miss Ellie.” Sometimes just “Ellie.” And recently… “family.”

One day he looked up at me and asked, “Do you think my dad and Adam are friends in heaven?”

I smiled and said, “I bet they’re up there trading stories about us.”

—

Life has a strange way of leading us to the people we need, even when we feel like we’re falling apart.

I never thought calling Adam’s number would lead me to Toby — a little boy with the same pain in his heart, who unknowingly handed me a lifeline when I needed it most.

We don’t always get the closure we want. But sometimes, life gives us a second chance at connection, healing, and unexpected joy.

Grief doesn’t go away. But it softens when we let love back in — even from the most unexpected places.

If this story touched you, please take a moment to like and share. You never know who might need a reminder that they’re not alone. ❤️