I was heading to the bakery to pick up some fresh rolls for my elderly mom when I noticed something lying near the curb — a phone. Or, at least, what used to be one. Its screen was cracked beyond recognition, the frame bent and battered as if it had been run over a few times.
I’m a programmer and have always loved tech, so I picked it up instinctively. Maybe I could salvage something from it later, I thought, slipping it into my pocket without a second glance.
After breakfast, curiosity gnawed at me. I carefully popped the SIM card from the smashed phone into my own and opened the contacts. There was only one number saved: “Daughter.” Something tugged at me, an odd feeling stirring deep inside.
I hesitated, then, driven by that strange pull, tapped “Call.”
A child’s voice burst through the speaker. “Mom!”
I froze.
“I… I’m not your mom,” I said quickly, voice trembling. “Who is this?”
There was a long pause. I could hear the disappointment in her small voice, fragile like a bird’s wing. “Where’s Mom? She went to the store yesterday and hasn’t come back.”
My heart clenched. “Where do you live? I’m going to find your mom. I promise.”
She whispered something I wasn’t prepared for.
“There’s also ONE THING you should know about me.”
I sat back, breath caught in my throat. “What is it?”
“My name’s Emma. And I’m… special.”
“Special how?”
Her voice dropped even lower, like sharing a secret too heavy for a child. “Mom says I’m different. That I don’t belong with other kids.”
My mind raced as I tried to imagine what she meant. Was she sick? Was she in danger? I needed answers.
“Can you tell me more, Emma?”
She hesitated, then said, “I can hear Mom’s voice sometimes, even when she’s not here. And at night, I see things she says no one else can. She calls it… a gift. But sometimes it scares me.”
My fingers tightened around the phone. “Emma, thank you for telling me. I promise I’ll help. Where is your mom now?”
“There’s a bench by the old library,” she said quietly. “Mom was there yesterday, but she didn’t come home.”
I grabbed my coat and rushed out the door. My thoughts swirled—how had a child ended up alone, scared, holding onto a phone that had been run over? Who was this mother? And why hadn’t anyone reported her missing?
The neighborhood near the library was quiet in the early afternoon. I scanned the benches, my eyes searching every shadow.
And then I saw her.
A woman in tattered clothes, sitting slumped against a tree. She looked lost — tired eyes, trembling hands.
“Ma’am?” I called gently.
She looked up, startled. “Are you looking for Emma?”
“Yes. I’m a friend. She’s worried about you.”
Her face crumpled. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
I sat beside her. “Tell me everything.”
She explained how life had spiraled — a string of bad luck, illness, losing their home. How she wanted to protect Emma from the harsh world but had ended up disappearing to keep her safe.
I felt the weight of her words, the desperation, and the love all tangled together.
“I’m going to help you,” I said firmly. “We’ll find a way out of this. Together.”
Back at my mom’s house that evening, Emma was curled up on the couch, clutching her teddy bear. She smiled when she saw me and whispered, “Thank you for calling.”
I knew that day would mark the beginning of something new—for Emma, her mom, and maybe even me. Sometimes, a broken phone by the curb isn’t just trash. It’s a lifeline waiting to be answered.