“Albert… I miss you,” my wife, dead for years, told me. I held the phone with both hands, but it still shook against my ear.
“Don’t you want to meet me again?” My mouth just hung open. No words came.
“You love me, Albert. Come to me.” My wet hands dragged the gun toward my head. The voice on the phone whispered, soft and steady:
“Do it. Now.”
I turned toward the window for one last look when gunshots erupted everywhere at once. I dropped the gun. Then silence. Above the rooftops, strange, blinding lights spread across the sky.
The phone whispered again: “Now.”