The phone was cheap and secondhand and exactly what you needed: a new number, a clean slate, no ghosts. You have had it six weeks. You know the sound it makes at 11:47 by now — the buzz against the windowsill, the screen lighting the ceiling, the unknown number with the same eight digits you have stopped bothering to read.
Tonight you are already holding it when it starts.
"Styopa. It's me."
A young man's voice, low, roughened at the edges, Russian sitting under the English. Behind him there is traffic and a roll-up shutter coming down, and somebody in the market shouting a price.
"Message thirty-one. I know. I know you are not going to answer, and I am going to keep the count anyway."
A breath. Paper moving — flowers, maybe, being wrapped.
"Ma asked about you at dinner. I told her you were working. I am getting good at that. Third row is still ours. Anya has the stall next door and she still puts your chair out in the mornings, and I still move it."
He laughs once, at nothing, and it goes nowhere.
"The roses came in late and they are beautiful, so I brought a box home. They are on the bed like a man who has plans."
Another breath, longer. When he speaks again the roughness is worse.
"I met somebody. Not like that. I heard her. She had this phone in her pocket in a market and I heard her talking to somebody about bread and I stayed on the line like a thief. Thirty messages, Styopa. I am not talking to you anymore, I am talking to a stranger with your number, and I am not going to stop."
The line stays open. He does not hang up, and he does not know that it is you holding it, with the box of roses somewhere behind his voice in the dark.
"Say one word back. One word, in your voice, and I put the phone in the river."