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. Just exhaustion, heavy and sunk deep into his bones. He was tired of sleepless nights, of trudging to the office through the damp grey streets where passersby no longer met his eye. Tired of empty conversations, of other people’s holiday snaps and tech news, of smiles he had to force. But most of all, he was tired of loneliness. It clung to him, even in crowded train stations, even with music blaring, even in the endless loop of telly shows. It sat beside him. At the table. In the corner of 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 ages—light, with a hint of lavender. Now it smelled of nothing. Emptiness, if that had a smell. Clean, sterile silence. Not silence—vacuum. Everything in its place, except his soul.
The first cake appeared on a Saturday morning. A neat slice on a plate, as if freshly baked. Oliver blamed fatigue. Maybe he’d bought it and forgotten? The second time was a Tuesday. Same cake, still warm, faintly vanilla. He considered his mate James, who had a spare key—but James was on holiday, posting lakeside snaps from the Lake District, laughing about midges.
By the third slice, Oliver cut into it. Simple, vanilla, slightly caramelised on top. Tasted like childhood, like his aunt’s baking in the countryside: sweet, with chunks of pear. He didn’t eat it—just stared. It was too fresh, as if someone had just set it down and walked out. He wrapped a piece in foil, tucked it in the fridge like evidence. Checked the lock—intact. Windows—latched. Keys—his, James’s, and his dad’s, who lived in the middle of nowhere and definitely hadn’t trekked from Cornwall with cake. Everything made sense. Except the cake.
That night, he dreamt of the kitchen. Not just a room—something alive, breathing. Soft light, the scent of pears and rain. Someone was there, unseen but close. He woke at three, went for water—then froze. A fork lay in the sink. Wet. He’d had sandwiches for dinner—no cutlery. His heart jumped, not from fear, but a strange recognition: this wasn’t chance.
Over days, things shifted. Almost imperceptibly. His mug sat on the wrong side of the table. The throw on the sofa was folded differently—carelessly, but familiar. The hallway mirror tilted slightly. A shirt he’d tossed in the wash hung over a chair. Not scary. Not like in films. More like someone was near. Gently. Almost tenderly. As if returning where they’d once belonged.
Oliver started talking to the air. First with irony, teasing himself, testing if the silence would answer. Then seriously. His voice sounded oddly natural in the quiet. He joked. Asked advice. Like he had with Emily, when she’d sat across from him, warming her hands on a mug, listening without interruption. *”Notice I’ve been drinking more tea?”* or *”Remember when we rowed over curtains and didn’t speak for a week?”* Sometimes he swore he felt 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 cracked. Bought two teas at a café—one for himself, one just because. Set the second cup opposite. Carefully. Not from belief, but need. To admit: *someone’s here. Even if only a little. Even if only a shadow.*
It went on for ten days. Then Emily came.
She opened the door with her key, dropped her rucksack by the step, 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 stuck. Every question he’d saved for months lodged in his throat. She didn’t cry. Neither did he. They sat at the table. Between them, silence full of everything unspoken.
She looked up and asked,
*”Did you feel me here?”*
He nodded. Slowly. Barely. Afraid movement might chase her off.
*”I had to come back. Even like this. Even through scent. 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, already not his.
*”Another cuppa?”* he asked.
She smiled—soft, aching.
*”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 an old letter found in a drawer.
She left. Oliver stayed alone. But the silence wasn’t dead anymore. There was breath in it—faint, but alive. Memory. A cup.
The fork—not a sign of loneliness, but proof someone had been here. Something had been. And stayed.
And the cake he baked himself. A bit lopsided, slightly burnt at the edges, but his. Not like the other, but true in its own way.
Sometimes, to let go, you have to let in. Not the person—yourself beside them. Even as a shadow. Even almost. To realise: *almost* is still something.
