Ghosts in the Kitchen

She could still see it — the way the light had fallen through the kitchen window, thin and pale, catching the dust motes in the air. It had been morning, she remembered that much. The kettle had just started to whistle. She’d been standing at the counter, buttering toast, when she heard the dull thud behind her — a sound that didn’t belong in an ordinary day.

When she turned, there he was, Henry — sprawled on the tile, eyes wide with confusion, one hand clutching his chest.

“Edna,” he gasped, voice cracking like dry wood. “Call… call 911.”

She froze. The butter knife slipped from her hand, landing in a small, soft clink beside the toast.

Henry’s eyes searched hers — the same eyes that had looked past her so many times before, eyes that never noticed her small kindnesses, her quiet patience. In that moment, those eyes were filled with terror.

“Please,” he whispered. “I’ll make it right. I swear.”

Something inside her shifted. The years of silence, the dismissive remarks, the way he’d brushed her aside — they all rose up like ghosts in that still kitchen. She saw him as he had been: proud, distant, certain that she’d always be there waiting.

Her hand went to the phone on the wall. She could hear her own heartbeat louder than the rain outside, louder than Henry’s rasping breath.

And then she stopped.

It wasn’t hate that held her still. It was emptiness — the quiet, hollow ache of too many apologies that never came, too many promises that had dried up long before this moment.

Henry’s voice trembled. “Edna… please.”

She stepped back. The rain was falling harder outside now, tapping against the windowpane like fingers urging her to move — but she didn’t. She just watched him.

When he tried to rise, his hand slipped against the floor, knocking over the cup of tea she’d made him that morning. It spilled in a dark, spreading stain that looked almost like the shadow of what they’d once been.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said again, weaker now. “I promise.”

Edna turned toward the doorway. Her fingers brushed the edge of the counter — the cool tile grounding her for just a moment.

“I think,” she said softly, almost to herself, “it’s too late for promises, Henry.”

Then she walked out the door.

The sound of the rain followed her, soft at first, then fading into the distance as she stepped into the storm — not looking back.

And now, years later, the memory slipped through her mind like another raindrop on the glass. She could no longer tell if it had really happened that way — if she had left, or if she had only dreamed she had.

Maybe she had called for help. Maybe she hadn’t.

All she knew was that when the rain came, it always brought him back — Henry’s voice, his pleading eyes, and the echo of her own footsteps fading down the hall.