Yakabatanidzwa ruzha

At 2:17 a.m. her phone lit up with his name the same name she had buried a year ago. I’m sorry I left you. Her heart stopped. She stared, shaking. He had died in an accident. Everyone knew that. Another message came. “Check the old café.” The next morning, she went. The owner handed her a small box. Inside was a letter, dated the day before he died. “If you’re reading this, I didn’t make it. But I couldn’t leave without saying I loved you. Tears fell as her phone buzzed again. This time, no