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Then my father died.

Finally, I clicked it.

“You used to call me Dad. I wrote this little program on your tenth birthday. Forgot to tell you. When my heart stopped, the icon would turn red. It means I still have one last message.” systray icon

I ignored it for a week. I had emails to answer, condolences to type. But the red dot pulsed faster each day, bleeding into the edge of my vision.

And then it vanished.

A pause. Then the message appeared, word by word, as if typed by a ghost:

The icon turned gray again.

“You haven’t spoken in 1,247 days. I’ve been listening anyway. Type something here.”