The phone rang.
Then it rang again.
Then it kept ringing—as if it refused to be forgotten, as if someone on the other end had nothing left but this annoying sound.
I was deep in sleep—deeper than I expected. I hadn't planned anything for today, just another weekend wasted between four walls. I don't remember when I fell asleep, but I do know I hadn't intended to wake up early.
The ringing didn't stop. It pounded against my eardrum like it wanted to tear it out.
I slowly opened my eyes. My head was heavy. My body, even heavier.
I looked at the phone. A strange number. From the countryside.
I answered lazily, stretching in bed.
— "Yes?"
A woman's voice replied—an old voice I knew well, but this time, it was broken. It was my grandmother's neighbor:
— "My son… I'm sorry… Your grandmother passed away a short while ago. May God have mercy on her."
Silence.
She was speaking, and I was listening. Or rather, I was hearing. There's a difference.
The words entered my ears, but they didn't touch me. They didn't awaken anything inside.
She kept talking, saying the funeral would be after the afternoon prayer, that I needed to come before then, that they'd take care of everything—I just had to show up.
I replied calmly:
— "I'm coming."
And ended the call.
I sat at the edge of the bed.
I stared at the floor.
It felt like I was living a scene that didn't belong to me. Like watching a silent film—I could see it, but I wasn't in it.
I don't know how much time passed before I moved. Before I gathered a few clothes in a small bag and walked out into the street.
The road to the countryside is long.
The transport is awful. The faces are dull. The weather annoyingly hot.
But none of that mattered. I was moving automatically, like I was fulfilling a duty written into some old script.
Scattered memories drifted through my mind…
My grandmother laughing toothlessly.
Her voice calling me "my son," even though I hadn't visited her in years.
Those rare calls, often ending in a request for money—or in a long prayer whose meaning I barely understood.
I didn't hate her.
But I didn't love her either.
Or maybe I just forgot how love for a family member feels.
My mother…? No. We don't talk.
Ever since she left me as a child to live with my father, I haven't really known her.
My grandmother tried, in her own way, to fill that void. But I was always distant.
Now she's dead.
And I'm on my way to her funeral—just as much a stranger as I was in her life.
I arrived in the countryside around afternoon.
The houses were close together—made of clay, tinted by sun and sweat.
The scent of dust mixed with incense and sorrow.
My grandmother's house—or what used to be called her house—was full of people.
Women in black, crying loudly, sitting on woven mats.
Men standing in the shade, talking about death, about prices, about the past.
Children playing off to the side, as if unaware that anything had changed.
I stepped into the yard. I didn't know anyone.
But everyone knew me.
That's the son of so-and-so. The late woman's grandson.
They glanced at me, whispered among themselves.
Where had he been? Why hadn't he come before?
Why does he seem so cold?
Then I saw the neighbor—the same voice that woke me up.
She rushed over and hugged me tightly, crying on my shoulder.
Her voice trembled as she said:
— "She always asked about you. She wanted to see you one last time… before she left."
I said nothing.
I wanted to say, "I'm sorry."
But I couldn't lie.
I didn't miss her.
I just… felt nothing.
I sat quietly in a corner of the courtyard.
I looked at the house. The cracked walls, the sagging roof, the broken plastic chairs.
Everything here spoke of death—even before she died.
There was a photo of her hanging up. An old one.
She was smiling in it, wearing traditional clothes, looking at the camera like she could see the future.
I looked at it… but it didn't move me.
Is something wrong with me?
Have I lost the ability to grieve?
Or is this just who I am—cold, detached, too rational for my own good?
The funeral happened quickly.
They prayed over her. Lifted the casket. Walked with heavy steps.
I was among them—a body without a soul.
Their eyes followed me. Eyes full of blame.
"Her only grandson, and not a single tear in his eye!"
But what if I had cried?
Would that have changed anything?
Would she have felt it in her grave?
Is crying a sign of love, or just a social ritual?
The burial ended.
People left.
The neighbor invited me inside—to rest a little.
I went in.
I sat in her room. My grandmother's room.
The scent of musk.
The scent of days I was never part of.
There, on the wooden table, I found something I didn't expect.
A small, worn notebook.
I opened it, curious.
Pages filled with her handwriting.
Not recipes. Not prayers.
Letters.
Letters to me.
"To my grandson…
I hope my words reach you one day, even if you're far away."
I froze.
I felt something stir in my chest.
Not crying…
But something closer to guilt.
I turned the pages. Found more.
Painful words. Honest words.
She had been writing to me—despite my absence, despite the distance.
She had been trying to reach me, in her own way.
Maybe she wasn't just asking for money.
Maybe she wanted something deeper.
Presence. Attention. Just a simple "How are you?"
The notebook slipped from my hands.
I closed my eyes.
For the first time since hearing of her death…
I felt something.
I'm not sure what exactly…
But it made it hard to breathe.
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