They came while we were asleep.
Eleanor Whitaker awoke to a sound she couldn’t place at first—a faint creaking of the floorboards in the hallway, as if someone were tiptoeing through the house. She listened intently, her pulse quickening. Beside her, her husband, Arthur Whitaker, slept soundly, undisturbed.
“Arthur,” she whispered, nudging his shoulder lightly. “Arthur, do you hear that?”
“Hmm? What is it?” he mumbled without opening his eyes.
“There’s someone in the house.”
Arthur reluctantly cracked one eye open, glancing at the glowing digits of the bedside clock.
“Ellie, it’s half two in the morning. You’re imagining things.”
“I’m not! I can hear footsteps!”
With a sigh, Arthur finally listened. And there it was—soft shuffling, a quiet scrape, the faintest tap coming from somewhere deeper in the house.
“Probably the cat,” he said, trying to soothe her. “Tiddles must be prowling about again.”
“What cat, Arthur? Tiddles passed three years ago—have you forgotten?”
Arthur was fully awake now. The sounds grew clearer. Someone was moving around their home, moving with purpose, as if they knew the layout well.
“Could it be Lily?” Ellie wondered aloud. “She has a key.”
“At this hour? She’s long asleep—work in the morning.”
Their daughter lived just a few streets away but rarely visited unannounced, especially after quarrels with her husband.
The steps drew nearer to the bedroom. Ellie clutched Arthur’s hand.
“Arthur, what if it’s… burglars?”
“Hush,” he murmured, sliding out of bed and fumbling for his slippers. “I’ll go look.”
“Don’t! What if they’re armed?”
“Ellie, who’d burgle us? We’ve got a concierge, security locks—and nothing worth stealing.”
He crept to the door, pressing his ear against the wood. From beyond it came a soft, lilting voice humming a familiar tune.
“Ellie,” he whispered. “Come here.”
She padded over, listening too.
“That’s… that’s the lullaby Mum used to sing,” Ellie breathed, her voice trembling. “The one from my childhood.”
Arthur frowned. His mother-in-law had passed ten years prior, but he remembered that wordless melody—the one she’d hummed while puttering about the house.
“It can’t be.”
“Arthur, what if it’s a ghost?” Ellie clutched his pyjama sleeve. “What if it’s her?”
“Don’t be daft, Ellie. Ghosts aren’t real.”
Yet even he felt a chill down his neck. The humming grew louder, now accompanied by the faint clinking of china—as if someone were setting out teacups in the kitchen.
“Just like her,” Ellie murmured. “Remember when she couldn’t sleep? She’d go to the kitchen, put the kettle on, arrange the cups…”
Arthur remembered. Margaret Hartwell had suffered sleeplessness in her later years, often rising before dawn to tidy or bake, humming all the while.
“I’m frightened,” Ellie admitted.
“Don’t be. Let’s see what’s there.”
He turned the knob and peered into the hallway. Silence. Only a faint glow from the kitchen, as if the stove light were left on.
Arm in arm, they tiptoed down the corridor. At the kitchen doorway, Arthur paused, peering inside.
The room was empty. Yet there, on the table, sat two teacups, spoons beside them, the sugar bowl neat and ready. The kettle hissed softly on the hob, steam rising from its spout.
“I didn’t leave the kettle on,” Ellie said, bewildered. “I know I didn’t.”
“Neither did I.”
They lingered in the doorway, unmoving. The kettle boiled, clicked off. In the quiet, only their ragged breaths sounded.
“Are we sleepwalking?” Arthur ventured. “Did we do this in our sleep?”
“Both of us? At the same time? Don’t be silly.”
Ellie stepped inside, touching a teacup. Warm. As if just held.
“Look,” she murmured, pointing to the windowsill. “The geraniums.”
The old pot, long barren, sat there—now bursting with fresh pink blooms.
“Mum loved geraniums,” Ellie whispered. “Said they brought peace.”
“Ellie… maybe we ought to see a doctor,” Arthur said carefully. “We’re talking nonsense.”
“Nonsense? You see it too—the tea, the cups, the flowers. They didn’t appear by magic.”
She sank into a chair, gazing at the waiting tea.
“She always said she’d come back to check on us, remember? ‘I’ll visit at night,’ she’d joke, ‘make sure you’re keeping well.’”
“I remember. But it was just jokes, Ellie.”
“What if it wasn’t?”
Arthur sat beside her, taking her hand.
“Even if she did, why fear her? She loved you. Loved us.”
Ellie nodded, calming slightly.
“She did. Always worried if we were happy, if we had enough.”
They sat in silence, watching the untouched tea. The fear ebbed, replaced by an odd, quiet warmth—as if the house held them in its arms.
“Remember how she fretted when we quarrelled over the cottage?” Ellie said suddenly. “How she begged us to make up?”
“Vividly. She wouldn’t speak to us for days till we did.”
“And how she glowed when Lily announced her engagement. Sewed the wedding dress herself—every bead.”
“Beautiful dress. She had a gift.”
They reminisced, the memories soft as candlelight. Margaret had been a kind, patient woman—her absence had left the house dimmer.
“Arthur… shall we drink it?” Ellie asked. “Since it’s here.”
“Aye.”
They poured the tea, added sugar. The scent of mint curled up—just as Margaret had always brewed it.
“She’d say mint soothes nerves,” Ellie noted.
“Aye, she would.”
They drank in quiet, each lost in thought. Dawn crept in, painting the kitchen gold.
“I think she really came,” Ellie said at last. “To see us. To know we’re alright.”
“Maybe,” Arthur allowed. “Or maybe we just miss her.”
“We do. Terribly.”
She rose, touching a geranium petal.
“So lovely. Like someone tended it.”
“Ellie… let’s have Lily over tomorrow,” Arthur suggested. “It’s been too long.”
“Yes. I’ll make Mum’s stew—Lily adores it.”
“And the apple pie. Her recipe.”
“And the photo albums. We’ll look through them.”
They planned the day ahead, the dread fading, leaving only a gentle glow—as if Margaret had left it behind.
When the tea was gone and sunlight glimmered through the curtains, they returned to bed. Ellie glanced back—the kitchen was spotless, cups washed and put away. She couldn’t recall doing it.
“Arthur,” she whispered, settling under the covers. “Today’s the tenth anniversary. Of Mum’s passing.”
He looked at her, startled.
“So it is. I’d forgotten.”
“We didn’t forget. Only didn’t think on it. She remembered. And she came.”
“She did,” he agreed, pulling her close.
They slept, curled together, while in the kitchen, the geraniums bloomed—sweetening the air with their scent. The scent Margaret had always carried, the one that lingered in childhood memories.
Come morning, Ellie lay still, eyes shut, afraid to find it all a dream. But the flowers still perfumed the house, and on the table sat a note in familiar handwriting:
*”Live well, my dears. I’m always with you. Mum.”*
They showed it to Lily that evening. Their daughter examined it, then pressed it to her heart.
“It’s Gran’s hand,” she whispered. “No doubt.”
And none of them questioned what had happened that night. Love, it seemed, was stronger than death—and that, above all, was the real miracle.
