If I wanted to Call
He thought about calling the way a man thinks about opening a door he hasn’t used in years. The handle was still there. The hinges would still work. But he stood in the hallway anyway, listening to the house breathe. The phone lay on the table where the light from the lamp touched it gently, as if not to startle it. He did not want much. Just a voice. Just proof that the line between here and somewhere else was still thin enough to cross. He imagined the sound before it arrived, the pause, the soft clearing of a throat, the way a name can carry warmth without asking for anything in return. He did not rehearse what he would say. He knew better than that. Words practiced too carefully forget how to be honest. He would begin simply. Hello. I was thinking of you. He would let the rest find its own way, the way rivers do, by remembering where they came from. In the end, he did not call. But the wanting changed something. The room felt less alone. The night leaned closer to listen. And somew...