Mistake

Life doesn’t send warnings before it breaks you. It just does.

Most days, my world was small, calm. A house that didn’t leak, a job that paid well enough, a son who still thought I was the strongest man alive. We lived on routine: cereal in the morning, radio on the way to school, dinner by seven, and phones down by nine.

I liked it that way. Predictable. Safe.

But it’s funny how quickly something safe can feel like a lie.

It was Thursday morning when everything changed. Early — too early — and still dark outside. The house was quiet. Even the fridge wasn’t humming. But my phone buzzed, violently, like it was trying to wake not just me, but the whole room.

I groaned, one eye barely open, and reached for it.

Unknown number.

I almost let it ring out. But I didn’t.

“Hello?” I mumbled, my voice still thick with sleep.

There was no static, no delay — just a voice, sharp and direct.

“Mr. Khanna, please sit down. This is urgent.”

I froze. Something in his tone made me sit up without thinking.

“I’m sorry, sir, but... your son was found dead this morning. Outside the school retreat site.”

I stopped breathing for a moment.

“He’s on a trip. He just left yesterday,” I said slowly. “He’s fine.”

“I’m afraid not. There was an incident. We’re still investigating.”

Then the call cut out.

Just like that.

I called the number back, but there was no ring — just a dull error beep.

Confused and panicking, I called the school. The line rang for longer than I liked before someone picked up.

It was the trip coordinator. She sounded surprised to hear from me.

“Your son? Oh, he’s perfectly fine,” she said with a soft laugh. “They’re just finishing breakfast. Everything’s okay.”

I didn’t know what to say. My hands were shaking.

“I... I got a call,” I said slowly. “Someone said he was dead.”

A pause. Then, in a lower voice, “That’s… really strange.”

I hung up, more confused than relieved. Maybe it was a prank. Maybe someone hacked into something. I didn’t know. I just sat there in bed, staring at the phone like it was some cursed object.

Then I saw it.

A voicemail.

3:17 AM. No number. No caller ID.

I hit play.

“You shouldn’t have taken the money. Now he’ll pay. One by one.”

That was all it said.

The voice was cold. Not angry, not emotional. Just... final. Like a man reading out a sentence in court.

I couldn’t move for several minutes.

That night, my son video-called me. He looked fine. Messy hair, big smile.

“Hey Dad! Guess what — we saw a snake in the woods!”

I tried to smile, but it didn’t land.

“Everything alright?” I asked.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fun here,” he said. “Though… weird thing. Someone left a note under our cabin door. Said, ‘Tell your father: Silence costs more than money.’ My teacher thinks it’s a prank.”

He laughed. I didn’t.

I told him to stay close to the group and not go anywhere alone. He rolled his eyes like all ten-year-olds do when you tell them to be careful, then ended the call.

I barely slept that night.

The next morning, I dug through old emails, old files, old things I thought I had buried.

Five years ago, during a different time in my life — one I try not to think about — I had taken money.

It wasn’t illegal exactly. But it wasn’t clean. I helped move funds between two shell companies for a man I barely knew. Quick favor. Big payment. I never asked questions.

I used the money to pay off our mortgage. To clear my name. To start over.

But now, someone had remembered.

And they wanted revenge.

That afternoon, I went to the police.

I told them someone was threatening me anonymously. I didn’t give them details about the money — not yet. I wanted to see how serious this was first.

The officer on duty shrugged.

“Any idea who it could be?”

“No,” I lied.

“Could just be an online scammer,” he said. “Happens a lot now.”

He took my statement, nodded politely, and handed me a card with a complaint number that felt more like a receipt than help.

The next day, everything stopped.

I got a call from the school. A different tone this time. Sharper. Scared.

“Sir… we can’t find your son.”

The last time anyone saw him was during the afternoon hike. He’d fallen behind. A teacher thought he was with the group ahead. The group ahead thought he was behind.

Now, he was nowhere.

They searched the woods. Called the police. Brought in dogs. But nothing.

Just his water bottle, found near a stone path that wasn’t on the map.

I drove there immediately. I searched for hours.

I screamed his name until my throat gave out.

Nothing.

That night, at 3:17 AM, I got another voicemail.

“He was the first. You still owe more.”

The case went cold.

They never found his body. Just stories. Rumors. Some kids on the trip claimed they saw a man near the woods, standing still, staring. Others said they heard a voice calling from behind trees — that sounded like a parent.

But nothing real. Nothing I could prove.

I stopped going to work. My wife stopped speaking much. Our home — the one I paid off with that dirty money — turned quiet. Hollow. Like something had left with him.

Sometimes I listen to the voicemail again.

Just to hear a voice. Even if it isn’t his.

A few weeks ago, I got one last message.

No voicemail. Just a single photo.

It was blurry. Low light. Grainy like it was taken with an old phone.

But it was him.

My son. Standing near a stone wall covered in moss. Wearing the same blue hoodie he left in.

Looking straight into the camera.

Behind him — a figure. Tall. Blurred. Almost part of the trees.

And then… nothing.

No sender. No metadata. No way to trace it.

That was the last message I received.

And it changed everything.

Because now, every morning, I wake up wondering if today is the day another one will come. Another photo. Another message.

I still don’t know who they are.

I don’t know what I owe.

And the worst part?

I don’t know if I would give it back, even if I could.

Because some mistakes don’t get erased.

They echo.

THE END