Shadows in the Kitchen
When Oliver found a slice of pear cake on the kitchen table for the third time—one he definitely hadn’t brought home—fear didn’t come. Neither did surprise. Only exhaustion, heavy and bone-deep. He was tired of sleepless nights, of commuting through the damp city where strangers no longer met each other’s eyes. Tired of hollow small talk, of other people’s holiday snaps and gadget chatter, of smiles he had to force. But most of all, he was tired of loneliness. It clung to him—in the bustle of train stations, beneath blaring music, amid endless TV series. It sat with him. At the table. On the sofa. In the unread messages left hanging on his phone.
He’d lived alone for nearly three years. After Emily left, the flat had kept her scent for months—light, with hints of lavender. Now it smelled of nothing. Emptiness, if emptiness had a scent. A clean, sterile silence. Not silence—more like a vacuum, where everything was in its place except his soul.
The cake first appeared on Saturday morning. A neat slice on a plate, as if just baked. Oliver chalked it up to exhaustion. Maybe he’d bought it and forgotten? The second time was Tuesday—the same cake, still warm, faintly vanilla. He wondered if his mate Ben, who had a spare key, was behind it. But Ben was on holiday, posting photos of the Lake District and joking about the drizzle.
By the third time, Oliver cut into the cake. Simple, vanilla-scented, with a hint of caramel glaze. The taste was straight from childhood—like the ones his aunt used to bake, sweet with thick chunks of pear. He didn’t eat it. Just stared. It was too fresh, as if someone had left it moments ago. He wrapped a piece in foil, stashed it in the fridge like evidence. Checked the lock—intact. The windows—latched. The keys—his, Ben’s, and his dad’s, who lived in the middle of nowhere and certainly wouldn’t trek to Manchester with cake. Everything added up. Except the cake.
That night, he dreamed of the kitchen. Not just a room—something alive, breathing. Soft light, the scent of pears and rain-fresh air. Someone was there. Unseen but close. He woke at three, went for water—and froze. A fork lay in the sink. Wet. But he’d had sandwiches for dinner—no cutlery. His heart thudded, not from fear, but recognition: this wasn’t an accident.
Over the days, things shifted. Subtly. Unexplainably. His mug ended up on the opposite side of the table. The throw on the sofa folded differently—messy but familiar. The hall mirror tilted slightly. A shirt meant tossed in the wash hung over a chair. Not scary. Not like in films. As if someone was there. Carefully. Almost tenderly. Like someone returning to where they’d once belonged.
Oliver started talking to the emptiness. At first with dry humour, testing if the silence would answer. Then properly—his voice steady in the quiet. He joked. Asked for advice. Like he had with Emily, back when she’d sit across from him, warming her hands on a teacup, listening without interruption. *“Notice I’ve been drinking more tea?”* or *“Remember when we stopped talking over those bloody curtains?”* Sometimes, he imagined a reply. Not words—a presence. A pause where the air grew warmer, thicker. As if the walls weren’t just hearing but listening.
One day, he gave in. Bought two teas at the café—one for him, one… just because. Placed the second cup opposite. Gently. Not from belief, but need. To acknowledge: someone was here. Even if only a shadow.
It lasted ten days. Then Emily came.
She opened the door with her key, dropped her rucksack by the threshold, and said:
*“I’d forgotten how your flat smells.”*
She stood slightly hunched, as if bracing to be turned away. Oliver stared like she was a mirage—achingly familiar yet from another life. Words jammed in his throat, all the unasked questions lodged there. She didn’t cry. Neither did he. They sat at the table. Between them: silence, loaded with the unsaid.
She looked up and asked:
*“Did you feel I was here?”*
He nodded. Slowly. Barely. Afraid any movement might shatter it.
*“I had to come back. Even like this. Even through small things. I didn’t miss you—I missed who we were.”*
*“You were here. Shadows.”*
*“Shadows,”* she echoed. *“But now… I’ll go. Properly. No traces. No hurt.”*
He watched her like something fragile, slipping away but already not his.
*“Another cup of tea?”* he asked.
She smiled—soft, tinged with sorrow.
*“One more. While I’m still a shadow.”*
They drank tea in the kitchen. One evening. One scent. One goodbye that didn’t wound, just left warmth, like finding an old letter in a drawer.
She left. Oliver was alone again. But the silence wasn’t dead anymore. It held breath—faint but alive. Memory. A cup.
The fork—not a sign of loneliness, but proof someone had been there. Something had been. And remained.
And the slice of cake he baked himself. Slightly lopsided, singed at the edge, but his. Not like the other, but that was the truth of it.
Sometimes, to let go, you have to let in. Not the person—but yourself beside them. Even as a shadow. Even almost. To realise: even almost is still something.
