Shadows in the Kitchen
When Oliver found a slice of pear tart on the kitchen table for the third time—one he definitely hadn’t brought home—fear didn’t come. Neither did surprise. Just exhaustion, the kind that settles deep in your bones. He was tired of sleepless nights, of commuting through drizzly London streets where no one made eye contact anymore. Tired of small talk about holidays and gadgets, of polite smiles that felt like heavy lifting. But mostly, he was tired of loneliness. It clung to him—on noisy train platforms, in blaring music, in the endless stream of unwatched telly. It sat with 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 hints of lavender. Now it smelled of nothing. Of emptiness, if emptiness had a scent. Just sterile silence. Not silence—more like 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 freshly baked. Oliver chalked it up to exhaustion. Maybe he’d bought it at the bakery and forgotten? The second time—on a Tuesday. Same tart, still warm, with a whiff of vanilla. He wondered if it was his mate Liam, who had a spare key. But Liam was on holiday, posting pics of the Lake District and joking about the rain.
By the third time, Oliver cut into the tart. Simple, vanilla-scented, slightly caramelised on top. It tasted like childhood, like the ones his aunt used to make—sweet, with chunky bits of pear. He didn’t eat it. Just stared. It was too fresh, as if someone had just left it and walked out. He wrapped a piece in foil, stashed it in the fridge like evidence. Checked the lock—secure. Windows—latched. Keys—only his, Liam’s, and his dad’s, who lived in the middle of nowhere and definitely hadn’t popped by with a tart. Everything added up. Except the tart.
That night, he dreamt of the kitchen. Not just a room—something alive, breathing. Soft light, the smell of pears and fresh air, like after a summer drizzle. Someone was there, unseen but close. He woke at 3 a.m., went for water—and froze. A fork sat in the sink. Wet. Except he’d had sandwiches for dinner—no cutlery. His heart thumped, not from fear. From recognition: this wasn’t an accident.
Over the next few days, things shifted… subtly. Oddly. His mug sat on the opposite side of the table. The blanket on the sofa was folded differently—messy, but familiar. The hallway mirror tilted slightly. A shirt meant for the wash hung neatly on a chair. Not scary. Not like a horror film. More like someone was there. Gently. Almost tenderly. As if they were easing back into a place that had once been home.
Oliver started talking to the empty air. At first, with dry humour, as if testing whether the silence would answer. Then, more earnestly. His voice sounded strangely natural in the quiet. He joked. Asked for advice. Like he used to with Emily, when she’d sit across from him, warming her hands on a teacup, just listening. “Notice I’ve been drinking more tea?” or “Remember when we argued over curtains and didn’t speak for a week?” Sometimes, he imagined a reply. Not words—just a feeling. 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 him, one for no reason at all, because he had to. Placed the second cup opposite his. Carefully. Not out of belief, but need. To admit: someone was here. Even just a little. Even just a shadow.
It went on for ten days. Then Emily came back.
She opened the door with her old key, dropped her backpack by the threshold, and said, “I forgot how your flat smells.”
She stood slightly hunched, as if bracing to be turned away. Oliver stared at her like a mirage—achingly familiar, yet from another life. Words tangled in his throat, all the questions he’d hoarded for months. She didn’t cry. Neither did he. They sat at the table. Between them, silence thick with everything unsaid.
She looked up and asked, “Did you feel me here?”
He nodded. Slowly, barely, afraid any movement might startle her away.
“I couldn’t stay gone. Not completely. Even just in small ways. I missed—not you, but who we were.”
“You were here. Shadows.”
“Shadows,” she echoed. “And now… I’ll go. Properly. No traces. No hurt.”
He watched her—something fragile, slipping away, already not his.
“Another cuppa?” he asked.
She smiled—soft, with a pinch of sadness.
“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 tucked in a drawer.
She left. Oliver was alone again. 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 there. That something had happened. And stayed.
And the slice of tart he baked himself. A bit lopsided, slightly burnt at the edge, but his. Not like the other one. But that was the truth of it.
Sometimes, to let go, you have to let in. Not the person—just yourself beside them. Even as a shadow. Even almost. To realise: even “almost” is still something.
