I found the phone by accident.
It slid out from under the passenger seat when I hit the brakes too hard at a red light—an unfamiliar weight, a dull black rectangle that I knew immediately wasn’t mine. My husband, Daniel, was meticulous about his things. If this were his everyday phone, I would’ve seen it before.
But I hadn’t.
My fingers hesitated for just a second before I picked it up. No passcode. No notifications. Just a blank home screen and one single contact saved under the letter “S.”
My stomach tightened.
There were 64 missed calls.
All from the same person.
I don’t remember deciding to press “call.” I just did.