They came while we slept.
Margaret awoke to a sound she couldn’t place at first—a faint creak of floorboards in the hallway, as though someone was tiptoeing through the house. She listened, her pulse quickening. Beside her, her husband, Edward, slept soundly, undisturbed.
“Ed,” she whispered, nudging his shoulder. “Ed, do you hear that?”
“Mmm? What is it?” he mumbled, barely stirring.
“There’s someone in the house.”
Edward reluctantly opened one eye, squinting at the glowing digits of the bedside clock.
“Maggie, it’s half past two. You’re imagining things.”
“I’m not imagining it! I can hear footsteps!”
He sighed but listened anyway. Sure enough, from somewhere deep in the house came quiet sounds—the faintest creak, a whisper of movement, a light tapping.
“Probably the cat,” he murmured, trying to soothe her. “Whiskers is at it again, racing about at all hours.”
“What cat, Ed? Whiskers died three years ago. Have you forgotten?”
Edward sat up fully awake now. The noises grew clearer. Someone—something—was moving through their home with purpose, as if familiar with every piece of furniture.
“Could it be Lillian?” Margaret ventured. “She does have a key.”
“At this hour? She’d be fast asleep—she has work in the morning.”
Their daughter lived nearby but rarely visited unannounced, especially this late.
The sounds crept closer to the bedroom. Margaret clutched Edward’s arm.
“Ed, what if it’s—burglars?”
“Hush,” he murmured, slipping out of bed and groping for his slippers. “I’ll take a look.”
“Don’t! What if they’re armed?”
“Maggie, what burglar would bother with us? The house is secure, and we’ve nothing worth stealing.”
He pressed his ear to the bedroom door. From beyond came a soft, lilting voice humming a familiar tune—one he knew well.
“Maggie,” he whispered. “Come here.”
She hurried to his side, listening.
“That’s—that’s Mum’s lullaby,” Margaret murmured, her voice trembling. “The one she used to sing when I was little.”
Edward frowned. His mother-in-law had passed a decade ago, but he remembered that melody well—wordless and sweet, something she’d hum while puttering about the house.
“It can’t be.”
“Do you think—it might be a ghost?” Margaret tightened her grip on his sleeve. “Maybe she’s come to see us?”
“Don’t be daft, Maggie. There’s no such thing.”
Yet a chill ran down his own spine. The humming grew clearer, joined now by the gentle clink of china—like someone setting out teacups.
“Just like her,” Margaret whispered. “Remember how she couldn’t sleep some nights? How she’d go to the kitchen and put the kettle on?”
Edward remembered. Eleanor had suffered from sleeplessness in her final years, often rising before dawn to tidy or bake, always humming that same tune.
“I’m frightened,” Margaret admitted.
“Come on now. Let’s see what’s what.”
He turned the handle cautiously, peering into the dark hallway. Silence—except for a faint glow from the kitchen, the soft light above the cooker.
Hand in hand, they crept forward. At the threshold, Edward hesitated, then looked inside.
The kitchen was empty. But on the table sat two teacups, spoons, and a sugar bowl. The kettle simmered on the stove, steam curling from its spout.
“I didn’t leave the kettle on,” Margaret murmured, bewildered. “I know I didn’t.”
“Neither did I.”
They lingered in the doorway, uncertain. The kettle clicked off, leaving only the sound of their breathing.
“Could we have—sleepwalked?” Edward ventured weakly. “Done all this in our sleep?”
“Both of us? At the same time? Don’t be silly.”
Margaret stepped inside, touching a cup. Still warm. Someone had held it moments ago.
“Look,” she said, pointing to the windowsill. “The geranium’s bloomed.”
The old plant, withered and forgotten, now boasted vibrant pink blossoms—fresh, alive.
“Mum always loved geraniums,” she said softly. “Said they brought peace to a home.”
“Maggie, perhaps we ought to see a doctor,” Edward suggested carefully. “This is all rather—odd.”
“Odd? You saw it too—the kettle, the cups, the flowers. None of this happened on its own.”
She sat at the table, gazing at the tea set out before them.
“She used to say she’d come back after she passed, remember? Teased us, saying she’d check in on us at night.”
“I remember. But it was just a joke, Maggie.”
“Was it?”
Edward took her hand.
“Even if it wasn’t—would we have anything to fear? It’s your mother. She loved us.”
Margaret nodded, calmer now.
“She did. Always worried if we were happy, if we had everything we needed.”
They sat in quiet reflection, the fear ebbing into something softer—a warmth, as if filled with the presence of someone who cared.
“Remember how she fretted when we argued over the cottage?” Margaret said suddenly. “How she wouldn’t speak to us until we made up?”
“Vividly. Held a grudge for three days.”
“And how thrilled she was when Lillian announced her engagement. Sewed the wedding dress herself—every last bead.”
“Beautiful dress.”
Memories of Eleanor—gentle, wise, endlessly patient—filled the room. The house had felt emptier without her.
“Ed, let’s have this tea,” Margaret said. “Since someone went to the trouble.”
“Alright.”
They poured the steaming water, added sugar. The tea smelled of mint—just as Eleanor used to make it.
“She always put mint in,” Margaret murmured. “Said it soothed the nerves.”
“Aye, I remember.”
They drank in silence as dawn crept in. The kitchen grew warmer, brighter.
“I think she really was here,” Margaret said at last. “To see how we’re getting on.”
“Maybe,” Edward agreed. “Or maybe we just miss her terribly.”
“We do. So much.”
She stood, brushing a finger over the geranium’s petals.
“Look how it’s flourished. Like someone’s been tending it.”
“Maggie, why don’t we invite Lillian round tomorrow?” Edward suggested. “She hasn’t visited in ages.”
“Yes. And I’ll make Mum’s beef stew—the one Lillian loved.”
“And a pie. That apple one she adored.”
“We’ll go through her old photos too.”
They spoke of plans, of remembrance, the fear wholly gone now—replaced by a quiet, grateful warmth.
When the tea was finished and sunlight filled the room, they returned to bed. Margaret glanced back—the kitchen was spotless, cups washed and put away. She couldn’t recall doing it.
“Ed,” she whispered as she settled under the covers. “Today is ten years. Since she left us.”
Edward looked at her, surprised.
“So it is. I’d forgotten.”
“We didn’t forget. We just weren’t thinking of it. But she remembered. And she came.”
“She came,” he echoed, holding her close.
They drifted off, the scent of geranium lingering—sweet, familiar. The same fragrance that had always clung to Eleanor, the one they’d loved since childhood.
In the morning, Margaret kept her eyes shut for a long moment, afraid to wake fully and find it all a dream. But the flowers still bloomed, and on the kitchen table lay a note in a script she knew by heart:
*”Be happy, my darlings. I’m always with you. Mum.”*
They showed it to Lillian when she visited that evening. Their daughter studied it, then pressed it to her heart.
“That’s Gran’s writing,” she whispered. “It really is.”
None of them doubted what had happened that night. Love had outlasted death—and that was the most wondrous thing of all.
