Shadows in the Kitchen
When Oliver found a slice of pear tart on the kitchen table for the third time—one he most certainly hadn’t brought home—fear didn’t come. Neither did surprise. Only weariness, heavy and sunk deep into his bones. He was tired of sleepless nights, of commuting through the damp, grey streets of London where passersby no longer met each other’s eyes. Tired of hollow conversations, of other people’s holiday photos and gadget chatter, of smiles he had to force. But most of all, he was tired of loneliness. It clung to him, untouched by the bustle of train stations, the blare of music, or the endless drone of telly dramas. It sat beside him. At the table. In the corner of the sofa. In the unread messages left dangling in his phone.
He’d lived alone almost three years. After Eleanor left, the flat had still carried her scent—light, with hints of lavender. Now it smelled of nothing. Of emptiness, if emptiness had a scent. A clean, sterile silence. Not silence, but a vacuum where everything was in its place, except his soul.
The tart first appeared on a Saturday morning. A neat slice on a plate, as if fresh from the oven. Oliver chalked it up to exhaustion. Maybe he’d bought it from the bakery and forgotten? The second time was on a Tuesday. The same tart, still faintly warm, with a whisper of vanilla. He thought of his mate Thomas, who had a spare key—but Thomas was on holiday, posting pictures of the Lake District, laughing about the sheep blocking the roads.
By the third time, Oliver cut into the tart. Simple, with vanilla, slightly caramelised on top. It tasted like childhood, like the ones his aunt used to bake in the countryside—sweet, with thick chunks of pear. He didn’t eat it. Just stared. It was too fresh, as if someone had just left it and stepped away. He wrapped a piece in foil, tucked it in the fridge like evidence. Checked the lock—still secure. The windows—all latched. The keys—his, Thomas’s, and his father’s, who lived in the middle of nowhere and certainly hadn’t trekked to London with a tart. Everything made sense. Except the tart.
That night, he dreamed of the kitchen. Not just a room—something alive, breathing. The light was soft, the air sweet with pears and rain. Someone was there, unseen but close. He woke at three, went for water—and froze. In the sink lay a fork. Damp. Yet he’d had sandwiches for dinner—no utensils. His heart thudded, not from fear, but from a strange recognition: this wasn’t chance.
In the days that followed, everything shifted… subtly. Imperceptibly. His mug sat at the opposite end of the table. The throw on the sofa was folded differently—carelessly, yet familiarly. The hallway mirror tilted slightly. A shirt he’d tossed in the laundry basket reappeared on the chair. Not scary. Not like in films. But as though someone was near. Carefully. Almost tenderly. As if returning to a place they’d once called home.
Oliver began speaking to the emptiness. At first with irony, teasing himself, testing if the silence would answer. Then, more earnestly. His voice sounded oddly natural in the quiet. He joked. Asked for advice. Like he once had with Eleanor, when she’d sat across from him, warming her hands on a teacup, listening without interruption. *”D’you think I’ve been drinking more tea lately?”* or *”Remember when we rowed over the curtains and didn’t speak for a week?”* 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 cracked. Bought two teas at the café—one for himself, the other just because. Set the second cup across the table. Gently. Not from belief, but need. To acknowledge: *someone is here. Even if just a little. Even if just a shadow.*
It went on like this for ten days. Then Eleanor returned.
She opened the door with her key, dropped her bag by the threshold, and said:
*”I’d forgotten how your flat smells.”*
She stood slightly hunched, as if braced to be turned away. Oliver stared at her like a mirage: achingly familiar, yet from another life. Words failed him. All the questions he’d hoarded for months stuck in his throat. She didn’t cry. Neither did he. They sat at the table. Between them, silence—thick with everything unspoken.
She looked up and asked:
*”Did you feel me here?”*
He nodded. Slowly, barely, afraid the motion might startle her away.
*”I couldn’t stay gone. Not completely. Even if just in the 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 pain.”*
He watched her, something fragile and fading, already not his.
*”Another cuppa?”* he asked.
She smiled—soft, with an ache beneath it.
*”One more. While I’m still a shadow.”*
They drank tea in the kitchen. One evening. One scent. One goodbye that didn’t wound, only left warmth, like an old letter found in a drawer.
She left. Oliver remained alone. But the silence wasn’t hollow anymore. It held breath—faint, but alive. Memory. A cup.
A fork—not a sign of solitude, but proof someone had been there. That something had happened. And lasted.
And the slice of tart he baked himself. A little uneven, slightly burnt at the edge, but his. Not like the other, but in that was the truth.
Sometimes, to let go, you must first let in. Not the person—but yourself beside them. Even as a shadow. Even almost. To realise: even *almost* is still something.
