They came while we were sleeping.
Margaret woke up to a sound she couldn’t quite place at first. A faint creak of the floorboards in the hallway, like someone was tiptoeing through the house. She held her breath, heart racing. Beside her, her husband, Thomas, was sound asleep, completely still.
“Tom,” she whispered, nudging his shoulder. “Tom, do you hear that?”
“Mmm? What?” he mumbled, barely opening his eyes.
“There’s someone in the house.”
Thomas groaned, squinting at the glowing numbers on the bedside clock.
“Maggie, it’s half two in the morning. You’re imagining things.”
“I am *not*! I can *hear* footsteps!”
With a sigh, he propped himself up and listened. Sure enough, somewhere deeper in the house, there were soft sounds—creaks, rustling, a quiet tap-tap.
“Probably the cat,” he muttered, trying to soothe her. “Whiskers is on one of his midnight runs again.”
“What cat, Tom? Whiskers died *three years ago*—have you forgotten?”
Thomas sat completely upright now. The sounds were getting clearer. Someone—or something—was moving around their house, confidently, like they knew the layout by heart.
“Could it be Emily?” Margaret suggested. “She *does* have a key.”
“At this hour? She’s fast asleep—she’s got work in the morning.”
Their daughter lived nearby but usually called before dropping in, especially after a row with her husband.
The footsteps crept closer to the bedroom. Margaret clutched Thomas’s arm.
“Tom, what if it’s… burglars?”
“Shh,” he whispered, slipping out of bed and fumbling for his slippers. “I’ll go check.”
“Don’t! What if they’ve got a knife?”
“Maggie, who’d rob *us*? We’ve got a security system, the neighbourhood’s safe—and let’s be honest, there’s nothing worth stealing.”
He crept to the door, pressing his ear against it. A soft, humming voice floated from the other side—a melody. A familiar one.
“Maggie,” he hissed. “Come here.”
She padded over in bare feet, listening.
“That’s… that’s Mum’s lullaby,” Margaret whispered, her voice catching. “The one she used to sing to me.”
Thomas frowned. His mother-in-law, Eleanor, had passed ten years ago, but he remembered that wordless tune she’d hum while pottering around the house.
“That’s impossible.”
“Tom… what if it’s a ghost?” Margaret gripped his pyjama sleeve. “What if Mum’s here?”
“Don’t be daft. Ghosts aren’t real.”
But even *he* felt a chill crawl up his spine. The humming grew clearer, and now there was another sound—clinking, like someone was arranging cups in the kitchen.
“Just like Mum,” Margaret breathed. “Remember how she’d wake up in the night, go put the kettle on?”
Thomas remembered. Eleanor had struggled with insomnia, especially in her later years. She’d wander downstairs at odd hours, tidying or making tea, always humming.
“I’m frightened,” Margaret admitted.
“Come on. Let’s go see.”
He turned the handle and peeked out. Silence. Only a dim glow from the kitchen—like the stove light was on.
Hand in hand, they crept down the hallway. At the kitchen door, Thomas paused, peering inside.
The room was empty. But on the table sat two teacups, sugar bowl beside them. The kettle hissed softly on the hob, steam curling from the spout.
“I *didn’t* put the kettle on,” Margaret murmured, confused.
“Neither did I.”
They hovered in the doorway. The kettle clicked off—silence, except for their quickened breaths.
“Maybe we’re sleepwalking?” Thomas ventured weakly.
“*Both* of us? At the *same time*? Don’t be ridiculous.”
Margaret stepped inside, touching a cup. Warm. Recently held.
“Look,” she whispered, pointing to the windowsill. “The geraniums.”
The old potted geranium, barren for over a year—the one she’d meant to toss—was now bursting with bright pink blooms.
“Mum *loved* geraniums,” Margaret said softly. “Said they brought peace to a home.”
“Maggie… maybe we should see a doctor?” Thomas offered carefully. “This is getting a bit… odd.”
“Odd? You *saw* the tea, the flowers. None of this just *happened*.”
She sank into a chair, staring at the waiting cups.
“You know… Mum always joked she’d come back to check on us. ‘I’ll haunt you proper,’ she’d say.”
“I remember. But it *was* just a joke, love.”
“Was it?”
Thomas took her hand. “Even if it wasn’t… why be scared? It’s your mum. She loved us.”
Margaret nodded, calming slightly. “She did. Always fussing over us.”
They sat quietly, watching the steam rise. Slowly, fear melted into something softer—a strange, comforting warmth, like someone who loved them was near.
“Remember how she’d nag us to reconcile after a row?” Margaret said suddenly.
“Course I do. Gave us the silent treatment till we made up.”
“And how thrilled she was when Emily got engaged. Sewed her wedding dress herself—every last bead.”
“Beautiful dress.”
They reminisced, the memories sweet. Eleanor had been kind, patient—the heart of their home. After she died, something had felt missing.
“Tom… let’s drink the tea,” Margaret said. “Since someone went to the trouble.”
“Alright.”
They poured the water, added sugar. The tea smelled of mint—just how Eleanor made it.
“She always put mint in,” Margaret murmured. “Said it soothed the nerves.”
“Yeah.”
They sipped in silence, lost in thought. Dawn crept in, painting the kitchen gold.
“I think she *was* here,” Margaret finally said. “Checking on us.”
“Maybe,” Thomas agreed. “Or maybe we just miss her.”
“I do. So much.”
She stood, tracing a fingertip over the geranium’s blooms.
“Gorgeous. Like someone’s been tending to it.”
“Mag… let’s invite Emily ’round tomorrow,” Thomas suggested. “She hasn’t visited in ages.”
“Yes. And I’ll make Mum’s beef stew—Emily loved it.”
“And a treacle tart. The one she taught you.”
“We’ll dig out the old photo albums, too.”
They planned the next day, spirits lifting. The fear was gone—only warmth remained.
When the tea was gone and sunlight filled the room, they returned to bed. Margaret glanced back—the cups were clean, put away. She didn’t remember washing them.
“Tom,” she whispered, curling under the duvet. “Today’s the tenth anniversary of Mum’s passing.”
Thomas blinked. “You’re right. I’d forgotten.”
“We didn’t forget. We just weren’t thinking of it. But *she* remembered. And she came.”
“She did,” he murmured, holding her close.
They drifted off, the geranium’s sweet scent filling the house—just like it had when Eleanor was alive.
In the morning, Margaret kept her eyes shut, afraid it’d all been a dream. But the scent lingered, and on the kitchen table lay a note in familiar handwriting: *”Be happy, my darlings. I’m always with you. Mum.”*
They showed it to Emily that evening. She studied it, then pressed it to her chest.
“That’s Nan’s writing,” she whispered. “It’s *hers*.”
And after that, none of them doubted what had happened that night. Love had outlasted death—and that was the most beautiful thing they’d ever known.
