They Came While We Were Sleeping
Margaret Elisabeth woke to a sound she couldn’t quite place—a faint creak of floorboards in the hallway, as if someone were tiptoeing through the house. Her heart quickened as she listened. Beside her, her husband, Thomas William, snored softly, undisturbed.
“Tom,” she whispered, nudging his shoulder. “Tom, do you hear that?”
“Mmm? What is it?” he mumbled, eyes still closed.
“There’s someone in the house.”
Thomas cracked one eye open, squinting at the glowing numbers of the alarm clock.
“Margie, it’s half past two. You’re imagining things.”
“I’m not! I can hear footsteps!”
He sighed but listened. Sure enough, faint shuffling echoed from somewhere deeper in the house—a creak here, a rustle there, a soft tapping.
“Probably the cat,” he reassured her. “Whiskers must be racing around again.”
“What cat, Tom? Whiskers died three years ago—have you forgotten?”
Thomas sat up fully. The sounds grew clearer. Someone was definitely moving through their home, confidently, as if they knew the layout well.
“Maybe it’s Emily?” Margaret suggested. “She does have a key.”
“At this hour? She’d be fast asleep—work tomorrow.”
Their daughter lived nearby but visited less often these days, usually only when she’d had a row with her husband. But she always called first.
The footsteps drew closer to the bedroom. Margaret clutched Thomas’s arm.
“Tom, what if it’s… burglars?”
“Hush,” he murmured, slipping his feet into his slippers. “I’ll check.”
“Don’t! What if they have a knife?”
“Margie, who’d rob us? We’ve got a night porter, intercoms, coded locks. There’s nothing worth stealing.”
He crept to the door, pressing an ear against the wood. A soft voice hummed a familiar tune on the other side.
“Margie,” he whispered. “Come here.”
She tiptoed over, listening.
“That’s… that’s Mum’s lullaby,” Margaret breathed, her voice trembling. “The one she sang to me as a child.”
Thomas frowned. His mother-in-law had passed a decade ago, but he remembered the wordless melody she’d hummed while tending to chores.
“Can’t be.”
“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.”
Yet a chill ran down his spine. The humming grew clearer, joined by the clink of china—someone arranging teacups.
“Just like Mum,” Margaret whispered. “Remember how she’d wake in the night and make tea?”
Thomas did. Eleanor Catherine had struggled with sleeplessness, especially in her later years. She’d rise at odd hours, tidying or baking, always humming that tune.
“I’m scared,” Margaret admitted.
“Don’t be. Let’s see what’s happening.”
He turned the handle, peering into the hall. Silence—save for a faint glow from the kitchen, as though the stove light were on.
Hand in hand, they crept forward. At the kitchen door, Thomas hesitated, then looked inside.
The room was empty. But two teacups sat on the table, spoons resting beside them. The kettle hissed softly, steam curling from its spout.
“I didn’t put the kettle on,” Margaret said, baffled.
“Neither did I.”
They lingered in the doorway. The kettle clicked off. The silence that followed was broken only by their own nervous breaths.
“Could we have sleepwalked?” Thomas offered weakly.
“Both of us? At the same time? Don’t be silly.”
Margaret stepped inside, touching a cup—still warm, as if just held.
“Look,” she whispered, pointing to the windowsill. “The geranium’s blooming.”
An old pot held a geranium that hadn’t flowered in over a year. Margaret had meant to toss it out, but never got round to it. Now, vibrant pink blooms crowned its stems, fresh and lush.
“Mum loved geraniums,” she said softly. “Said they brought peace to a home.”
“Margie, maybe we should see a doctor,” Thomas suggested carefully. “This is all a bit… odd.”
“Odd? You see it too—the tea, the flowers. None of this happened by itself.”
She sank into a chair, staring at the waiting cups.
“She always said she’d visit after she was gone, remember? ‘I’ll check on you, make sure you’re alright.’”
“I remember. But she was joking, Margie.”
“Was she?”
Thomas took her hand.
“Even if she wasn’t, why be afraid? It’s your mum. She loved us.”
Margaret nodded, some tension easing.
“She did. Always worried, always caring.”
They sat quietly, gazing at the set table. Fear ebbed, replaced by a strange calm—as if the house held a presence both familiar and kind.
“Remember how she fretted when we quarrelled over the cottage?” Margaret murmured.
“Vividly. Gave us the silent treatment till we made up.”
“And how thrilled she was when Emily got engaged. Sewed the wedding dress herself, every bead.”
“Lovely dress. Beautiful.”
They reminisced, the memories warm. Eleanor had been patient, wise—a steady light in their lives. When she passed, something vital had dimmed in the house.
“Tom, let’s have this tea,” Margaret said suddenly. “Since someone made it for us.”
“Alright.”
They poured the water, added sugar. The tea carried a hint of mint—just as Eleanor had always brewed it.
“She always added mint,” Margaret mused. “Said it soothed the nerves.”
“That she did.”
They drank in silence, lost in thought. Dawn crept in, the kitchen growing cosier by the minute.
“I think she really was here,” Margaret said at last. “Checking on us.”
“Maybe,” Thomas agreed. “Or maybe we just miss her terribly.”
“We do. So much.”
She rose, touching the geranium’s blossoms.
“So lovely. As if someone tended it.”
“Margie, let’s invite Emily over tomorrow,” Thomas said. “It’s been too long.”
“Yes. I’ll make Mum’s beef stew—the one with horseradish. Emily adored it.”
“And that apple crumble she loved.”
“We’ll dig out old photos, too.”
They made plans, spirits lifting. The fear had gone, leaving only warmth—and the quiet sense of being watched over.
When the tea was finished and sunlight spilled through the curtains, they returned to bed. Margaret glanced back—the kitchen was tidy, cups washed and put away. She didn’t recall doing it.
“Tom,” she whispered, settling under the duvet. “Today’s the tenth anniversary of Mum’s passing.”
Thomas blinked.
“Blimey. I’d forgotten.”
“We didn’t forget. We just… didn’t think of it. But she remembered. And she came.”
“She did,” he murmured, holding her close.
They drifted off, comforted. In the kitchen, the geranium bloomed, its sweet fragrance filling the house—the very scent that had always clung to Eleanor, the one they’d loved since childhood.
Come morning, Margaret kept her eyes shut, fearing it had all been a dream. But the geranium’s perfume lingered, and on the table lay a note in familiar handwriting: “Be happy, my darlings. I’m always with you. Mum.”
They showed it to Emily when she visited that evening. Their daughter studied it, then pressed it to her heart.
“That’s Gran’s writing,” she whispered. “No doubt.”
And none of them questioned what had happened that night. Love had bridged even death—the quietest, most wondrous miracle of all.
