They came while we slept.
Margaret woke to a sound she couldn’t quite place—a faint creak of floorboards in the hallway, as though someone were tiptoeing through the flat. Her pulse quickened as she strained to listen. Beside her, her husband, Edward, lay undisturbed, breathing steadily.
“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 cracked one eye open, squinting at the glowing digits of the alarm clock.
“Margaret, it’s half past two. You imagined it.”
“I didn’t! I can hear footsteps!”
With a sigh, he propped himself up on an elbow and listened. There it was—soft shuffling, a faint tap, unmistakable movement deeper in the flat.
“Probably the cat,” he muttered. “Whiskers is at it again.”
“The cat? Ed, Whiskers died three years ago, don’t you remember?”
That woke him properly. The sounds grew clearer—someone moving confidently through the rooms, as if they knew the layout by heart.
“Could it be Emily?” Margaret whispered. “She does have a key.”
“At this hour? She’d be fast asleep—work in the morning.”
Their daughter lived just across town but only dropped by unannounced when she’d quarrelled with her husband. Still, she usually texted first.
The footsteps neared the bedroom. Margaret gripped Edward’s arm.
“Ed, what if it’s… burglars?”
“Quiet,” he murmured, slipping out of bed. “I’ll check.”
“Don’t! What if they’ve got a knife?”
“Margaret, who’d break in here? We’ve got a concierge, security locks—and there’s nothing worth stealing.”
He pressed his ear to the door. A woman’s voice hummed a familiar lullaby on the other side.
“Margaret,” he whispered. “Come here.”
She hurried over, listening.
“That’s—that’s Mum’s song,” she breathed, her voice trembling. “The one she sang when I was little.”
Edward frowned. His mother-in-law had passed a decade ago, but he remembered that wordless tune she’d always hummed while baking.
“It can’t be.”
“Ed, what if it’s a ghost?” Her fingers dug into his pyjama sleeve. “What if Mum’s here?”
“Don’t be absurd. Ghosts aren’t real.”
But a chill ran down his own spine. The humming grew clearer—and now, the clink of china, as though someone was setting out teacups.
“Just like her,” Margaret whispered. “Remember how she’d wake at night and put the kettle on?”
He did. Helen had suffered insomnia in her later years, often rising before dawn to tidy or bake, that same tune on her lips.
“I’m frightened,” Margaret admitted.
“Come on. Let’s see what’s there.”
He turned the handle and peered out. The hall was dark—only a sliver of light spilled from the kitchen.
Hand in hand, they crept forward. At the doorway, Edward paused.
The kitchen was empty. Two cups sat on the table, spoons and a sugar bowl beside them. The kettle hummed on the hob, steam curling from its spout.
“But I didn’t boil the kettle,” Margaret said weakly. “I know I didn’t.”
“Neither did I.”
They lingered on the threshold, uncertain. The kettle clicked off, leaving silence thick with their ragged breaths.
“Sleepwalking, maybe?” Edward ventured. “Did we do this without realising?”
“Both of us? At the same time? Don’t be ridiculous.”
Margaret stepped inside, touching a cup—still warm, as if held moments ago.
“Look,” she said, pointing to the windowsill. “The geranium’s blooming.”
The old plant, barren for a year, now bore vivid pink blossoms, fresh and full.
“Mum loved geraniums,” Margaret murmured. “Said they brought peace to a home.”
“Margaret, maybe we should see a doctor,” Edward said carefully. “This is… odd.”
“Odd? You saw the kettle, the cups, the flowers. None of this happened by itself.”
She sank into a chair, staring at the waiting tea.
“You know, she always said she’d visit after she was gone. ‘I’ll check on you,’ she’d joke. ‘Make sure you’re behaving.'”
“I remember. But it was just a joke.”
“Was it?”
Edward took her hand.
“Even if it wasn’t—why be afraid? It’s your mum. She loved us.”
Margaret nodded, some tension easing.
“She did. Always fussing over us, worried we weren’t happy.”
They sat quietly, watching the steam rise. Slowly, the fear faded, replaced by a strange, gentle calm—as if love itself had slipped into the room.
“Remember how upset she was when we fought over the cottage?” Margaret said suddenly.
“Vividly. Gave us the silent treatment till we made up.”
“And how she glowed when Emily got engaged. Sewed the wedding dress herself, every stitch.”
“Beautiful dress.”
They spoke of her softly, memories warm as the tea. Helen had been kind, patient—her absence had left a hole nothing else could fill.
“Ed, let’s drink this,” Margaret said. “Since someone went to the trouble.”
“Alright.”
They poured the water, added sugar. The tea was minty—just as Helen had always made it.
“She loved adding mint,” Margaret murmured. “Said it soothed the nerves.”
“Yes.”
They sipped in silence, lost in thought. Dawn crept in, gilding the edges of the room.
“I think she really was here,” Margaret said at last. “Checking on us.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps we just miss her.”
“So much.”
She rose, fingers brushing the geranium’s petals.
“It’s thriving. Like someone’s been tending it.”
“Margaret, let’s invite Emily round tomorrow,” Edward said. “It’s been too long.”
“Yes. I’ll make her favourite—Mum’s beef stew.”
“And an apple pie. The proper one, with cinnamon.”
“We’ll look through the old photos, too.”
As they planned the day ahead, the weight lifted further. The fear was gone—only warmth remained.
When the tea was finished and sunlight whispered through the curtains, 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, nestling close. “Today’s the tenth anniversary. Of Mum’s passing.”
He 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 did,” he agreed, holding her tight.
They slept, curled together, while the geranium bloomed quietly in the kitchen, its sweet fragrance threading through the flat—the scent of childhood, of comfort, of her.
In the morning, Margaret lay still, afraid to open her eyes and find it all a dream. But the flowers’ perfume lingered, and on the table sat a note in familiar handwriting:
“Be happy, my loves. I’m always with you. Mum.”
They showed it to Emily that evening. She studied it, then pressed it to her heart.
“That’s Nan’s writing,” she whispered. “No doubt.”
And so they stopped questioning what had happened that night. Love had outlasted death—and that, more than anything, was the miracle they would hold onto.
