Ravi was a successful engineer — well-settled, respected, always busy.

But far away from home… and from his mother.

His mother would call almost every day, just to hear his voice.

But Ravi would often say, “Later, Ma. I’m in a meeting,” or

“I’m tired, I’ll call you back.”

Every time she called, she’d say just one thing:

> "I feel better after hearing your voice, beta. My day feels complete."

One evening, Ravi was exhausted. His phone rang.

It was his mother. He looked at the screen… and rejected the call.

"I’ll call later," he thought.

That “later” never came.

The next morning, an unknown number appeared on his phone.

> “Ravi ji, your mother passed away last night…

She had a sudden heart attack.”

The world around him collapsed.

He rushed to his village.

When he arrived, everything felt too quiet… too late.

Beside his mother’s bed was her old mobile phone.

Ravi picked it up. There was a voice recording saved — just hours before her death.

He pressed play.

It was her voice:

> "Beta… I don’t know why, but my heart feels heavy today.

If I can’t talk to you again…

Just know, I love you so much.

I live for the sound of your voice.

You are my world…"

Ravi froze.

Tears streamed down his face.

He played the message again. And again.

Each time, it broke him a little more.

His mother was gone.

But her voice remained.

Forever.

Her last voice… the only thing he could never reply to.