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The group was still active.

Nothing had happened.

That was the strange part.

The name at the top hadn’t changed in years:
Family.

Neither had the photo.
A summer lunch.
Too much light.
Nobody was looking at the camera at the same time.

She was.

She wrote every day.

Not much.
Just enough.

“Good morning.”
“Cold today.”
“Did you eat?”

Nothing that needed an answer.
Nothing that bothered anyone.

Sometimes she’d send a photo.

A plate.
A plant.
The window, open.

There were always two checks below.

Two.

The group wasn’t dead.
It was just… on pause.

Everyone saw them.

At different hours.

One at work.
Another in the car, waiting.
Someone in bed, before falling asleep.

Nobody answered in that moment.

Then they didn’t either.

It wasn’t a decision.

It was something else.

Like when you hear a notification and think: later.
Later never came.

A Tuesday she didn’t write.

Nobody noticed.

Wednesday either.

Friday, one of her kids wrote.

“Everything okay?”

One check.

Then two.

No answer.

Then more came.

“Are you home?”
“Call me when you can.”
“Has anyone talked to her?”

The notifications started stacking up.

The group had movement again.

Saturday morning, someone went to her place.

The door was locked from the inside.

The TV on.
Volume low.

The phone on the table.

The screen lit up.

The group open.

There was no answer.

But it wasn’t the last message.

“I made croquettes.
If you come by tomorrow, I’ll leave them ready for you.”

Everyone got there.

Too late.

The same table.
The same summer.
But cropped.

And below, someone wrote:

“The croquettes were good.”

Two checks.

And, for the first time,

an answer.

“Yeah.”

– S. C. –

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