The clock in the hallway struck midnight.
The house, long quiet, seemed to breathe with the shifting of the wind. Curtains lifted, then fell again. The single lamp on the dresser cast a dim pool of yellow that reached only halfway across the room.
The old woman stood by the switch, her hand hovering above it. She should have gone to bed hours ago, but something—some echo in the walls, perhaps—kept her awake.
Her fingers touched the switch. Then stopped.
She turned her head toward the window. The yard beyond was soaked in moonlight. The gate stood ajar, creaking faintly each time the wind passed through. She didn’t remember leaving it open.
For a long moment she stayed still, listening.
The house answered with its usual sounds—old wood contracting, the faint hum of the refrigerator downstairs—but beneath it, she heard something else. A rhythm. Slow. Even. Like breathing.
Her eyes moved to the hallway mirror opposite the door. In it, her reflection stood pale and still. But behind her—just at the edge of the frame—was the faintest shimmer, like movement caught too late.
She turned sharply.
Nothing. Only the empty corridor stretching into dark.
She forced a breath, reached for the light again—then stopped once more.
“I’m too old for this,” she muttered, trying to laugh, though her voice came out thin.
Still, she didn’t turn it off.
Instead, she crossed to her dresser, opened the top drawer, and drew out a small wooden frame. Inside was a photograph of her husband, taken half a century ago. He’d been gone twenty years now. Yet lately, she swore she could hear him moving through the house at night—slow, careful steps, pausing outside her door.
“Stop scaring yourself,” she whispered.
But the steps came again.
Not in her head this time. On the stairs.
She froze.
The rhythm was unmistakable—measured, deliberate, neither hurried nor hesitant. The same way he’d walked when he didn’t want to wake her.
Her hand shook as she turned toward the sound.
“James?”
Silence.
The next gust of wind blew the curtains wide, and for an instant the lamp flickered—casting two shadows on the far wall. One was hers. The other stood beside it, just long enough for her to see before the light went out on its own.