**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—he didn’t feel fear. Not even surprise. Just a bone-deep weariness, the kind that settles in after too many sleepless nights, too many commutes through the damp streets of London where strangers never meet your eye. He was tired of hollow conversations, of hearing about holidays and gadgets, of forcing smiles that never reached his bones. But most of all, he was tired of the loneliness. It clung to him, in train stations, in blaring music, in unanswered messages left hanging on his phone.
He’d lived alone for nearly three years. After Emily left, the flat had kept her scent for a while—light, with hints of lavender. Now it smelled like nothing. Like emptiness, if emptiness had a scent. Sterile silence. Not quiet—just dead air, where everything was in its place except his soul.
The first slice appeared on a Saturday morning. Neat, as if just baked. He brushed it off—fatigue playing tricks. Maybe he’d bought it and forgotten? The second time, on a Tuesday, the cake was still warm, faintly vanilla. He wondered if his mate James, who had a spare key, was behind it. But James was on holiday, posting pictures of the Lake District, joking about the sheep.
By the third slice, Oliver cut into it. Simple, vanilla, caramelised at the edges. The taste took him back—his aunt’s kitchen in Cornwall, sticky fingers, laughter. He didn’t eat it. Just stared. It was too fresh, as if someone had just left it. He wrapped a piece in foil, hid it in the fridge like evidence. Checked the locks—fine. The windows—shut. The keys—his, James’s, and his father’s, who lived in the Welsh countryside and wouldn’t drive to London with cake. Everything made sense. Except the cake.
That night, he dreamed of the kitchen—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. But he’d had sandwiches for dinner—no cutlery. His heart pounded, not from fear, but recognition. This wasn’t chance.
Things shifted after that. Subtly. His mug moved. The throw on the sofa folded differently—messy, but familiar. The hallway mirror tilted slightly. A shirt meant for the wash hung on the chair. Not frightening. Not like in films. Just… someone there. Carefully. Almost gently, as if returning to a place that had once been home.
He started talking to the emptiness. At first, joking, testing if the air would answer. Then seriously. His voice sounded right in the quiet. He quipped, asked advice—like he had with Emily, when she’d sit across from him, cradling her tea, listening without interruption. *”D’you think I drink too much tea now?”* or *”Remember when we fought over curtains and didn’t speak for a week?”* Sometimes, he swore he felt a reply. Not words—just warmth. A pause where the air thickened, as if the walls weren’t just hearing, but listening.
One day, he bought two teas at the café—one for himself, one for no reason he could explain. Set the second cup opposite his. Not from belief, but need. To acknowledge: someone was here. Even if just a shadow.
Ten days later, Emily came back.
She opened the door with her key, dropped her bag, and said, *”I’d forgotten how your flat smells.”* She stood slightly hunched, as if bracing to be turned away. He stared—familiar enough to ache, yet distant as a dream. Words stuck in his throat. She didn’t cry. Neither did he. They sat at the table, the silence heavy with everything unspoken.
*”Did you feel me here?”* she asked.
He nodded, slow, afraid movement would shatter the moment.
*”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 looked at her like something fragile, slipping away, already not his.
*”Another cuppa?”* he asked.
She smiled—light, with an ache beneath. *”One more. While I’m still a shadow.”*
They drank tea in the kitchen. One evening. One scent. One goodbye that didn’t cut, just left warmth, like an old letter tucked in a drawer.
She left. Oliver stayed. But the silence wasn’t dead anymore. It had breath—faint, but alive. Memory. A cup.
The fork wasn’t a sign of loneliness, but proof someone had been there. Something had. And remained.
And the slice of cake he baked himself. Uneven, slightly burnt at the edge—but his. Not like the others, and that was the truth.
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.
