A Late-Night Encounter

The kitchen clock ticked softly, its gentle sound barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator. The rest of the house was dark and silent, as though the world had decided to pause for the night. Holly stood barefoot on the cool tile floor, her oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder. It was nearly two in the morning, and she hadn’t meant to stay up this late. But here she was, again, wide awake while the rest of the world slumbered.

The kitchen had always been her sanctuary, a place where she felt she could breathe. It was simple, small even, but in the dead of night, it felt like it expanded into something endless, like the walls dissolved into the darkness. The soft amber glow of the under-cabinet lights gave the room a warm, welcoming glow. Holly reached for the kettle, filling it with water and setting it on the stove. The click of the burner igniting broke the stillness, and soon the gentle hiss of the heating water joined the ticking clock.

Her thoughts were heavier tonight, the kind of weight she carried too often these days. She had become familiar with these late-night rituals, the restless pacing, the tea, and the silence that seemed too big for the small space she lived in. But it wasn’t just today’s worries that kept her up — no, this insomnia had started years ago, long before her mother’s health became a concern. It had started after Ladonte.

She blinked, trying to shake the thought. She hadn’t let herself think of him in months, maybe years, but some wounds never closed properly, even when you buried them deep. There were nights when his absence crept back in, quiet and unwelcome, and tonight was one of those nights.

It had been a long day. The kind of day where time seemed to stretch and fold in on itself. Work was hectic, and her thoughts were cluttered with doubt and anxiety, lingering just below the surface, ready to rise. She was waiting for a phone call. Her mother’s test results were due, and the hospital had promised to call “soon,” but “soon” had turned into hours. Holly clenched her jaw as she stared at the kettle, willing it to boil faster, as if a cup of tea could dissolve her tension.

Hospitals. She shivered, a cold, sinking feeling spreading through her. She hated waiting for calls from hospitals — it always reminded her of that other call, years ago, when she found out about Ladonte. The rush to the ER, the doctor’s grim face. The accident. His empty eyes. She closed her own now, forcing herself to breathe.

The house was too quiet tonight. Her mind, too loud.

Just as the kettle began to whistle, there was a soft thud from the hallway. Holly froze, her pulse quickening. She glanced toward the door, half-expecting someone to appear, but the doorway remained empty. The sound had been so faint, it could’ve been anything — a settling floorboard, maybe the wind outside. But then she heard it again, this time accompanied by a slow, steady creak, like someone shifting their weight.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She hadn’t been expecting anyone. It was late, too late for visitors, and her roommate, Bob, wasn’t supposed to be home until the weekend. Heart pounding, Holly grabbed the nearest thing within reach — a wooden spoon — and held it out in front of her like some sort of pitiful weapon. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. Maybe it was nothing.

With slow, deliberate steps, she crossed the kitchen and peered into the dark hallway. At first, she saw nothing. But then, as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she spotted a figure sitting at the end of the hall, their back turned toward her. They were sitting on the floor, legs crossed, head bowed, almost as if they were meditating. The figure was eerily still.

“Bob?” Holly whispered, her voice shaky.

No response.

She took a step forward, then another. The closer she got, the more her stomach churned. The figure looked familiar, but something was off. It wasn’t Bob. It was someone else — someone she hadn’t seen in years.

Her breath caught in her throat. Him.

“Ladonte?” she breathed, the word barely escaping her lips.

The figure slowly turned, and Holly's heart dropped. It was Ladonte, her ex-boyfriend, the one who had left years ago without so much as a goodbye. His face was pale, his eyes hollow and distant, as though he were staring at something far beyond her.

“You’re not real,” she whispered, taking a step back. “You’re not here.”

But Ladonte didn’t disappear. He just sat there, watching her with that vacant expression, as if he was waiting for something. Holly's mind raced, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t be here. He had died — she had gone to his funeral. And yet, here he was, as clear as day, sitting in her hallway.

She gripped the wooden spoon tighter, her knuckles white. “What do you want?” she demanded, her voice trembling.

Ladonte didn’t answer. He just tilted his head slightly, his gaze shifting to the kitchen behind her. Holly turned, following his line of sight. The kettle was still whistling, the steam rising in thin tendrils. For a brief moment, the kitchen felt impossibly far away, like a distant memory of safety and warmth. She turned back to Ladonte, but now, the hallway was empty. He was gone.

Holly stood frozen in place, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She wasn’t imagining this. She couldn’t be. She had seen him. He had been right there, as real as the ticking clock, as real as the steam from the kettle.

The whistle of the kettle grew louder, shrill, and insistent. Holly shook herself out of her daze and hurried back to the stove, turning off the burner. She poured the boiling water into a mug, her hands shaking so badly that she nearly spilled it.

She stood at the counter, staring into the cup, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Ladonte was gone. He had been gone for years. But why had he shown up here, now, in the middle of the night?

The sound of the refrigerator door opening made her jump. She spun around, clutching the mug to her chest, but the kitchen was empty. Slowly, she approached the fridge, the door still wide open. Inside, the shelves were bare except for a few leftover containers and half a carton of milk. Nothing out of place. She reached out to close the door when she noticed something on the floor.

It was a single, crumpled piece of paper. She bent down, picking it up with trembling hands. The paper was yellowed and worn, like it had been folded and unfolded a thousand times. Scrawled across it in Ladonte's familiar handwriting were the words — I’m sorry.

Holly's breath hitched in her throat. She hadn’t seen his handwriting in years, not since the day he left. Her mind raced, memories flooding back — memories she had buried long ago. The fights, the distance, the unanswered questions. And then the accident. The call from the hospital.

She sank into a chair at the kitchen table, staring at the note, tears welling in her eyes. Was this real? Had Ladonte somehow come back to say the one thing he had never said when he was alive? Or was this just her mind playing tricks on her, dredging up old wounds in the dead of night?

She didn’t know. But as she sat there, the weight of the note heavy in her hands, she felt a strange sense of peace settle over her. The kitchen, once a place of comfort, had become a stage for something otherworldly. But now, with the silence settling back in, it felt different. Softer. Like the air had cleared.

Holly wiped her eyes and folded the note, tucking it into her pocket. She didn’t know what had happened tonight, or why. But she knew one thing — whatever it was, it had been important. Maybe Ladonte had come to say goodbye. Maybe he had come to offer the apology she had longed for. Or maybe, just maybe, it had been her own heart letting go of the past, finally allowing her to move forward.

The kitchen clock ticked softly, and Holly let out a deep, steady breath. Tomorrow would come soon enough, but for now, in this quiet, late-night kitchen, she felt a sense of closure. Not complete, not perfect, but enough. And that was all she needed.