Midnight Visitor

I couldn’t sleep that night.

Quietly, I left the room without waking my son and entered the living room. The designer lamp in the corner was dimly lit, but the dark green walls made it barely bright.

It was a warm and cosy light, so I sat on the sofa by the window and looked up at the black, cloudless sky. It was a new moon; apart from the stars shining brightly in the sky, it was night blue and dark. The outline of the forest stood out in the darkness, moving ghostly through the gentle breeze.

The world seemed asleep, and cars could not be seen on the nearby road. I yawned and looked at my watch. It was half past two in the morning, the witching hour.

There were hardly any snowy or even icy days this winter, and the nights were generally not chilly. Nevertheless, I shivered from the inexplicable feeling of the approaching cold. I decided to make myself a “good night” tea, hoping it would warm me up and make me tired.

I entered the kitchen, filled the kettle with fresh water, and switched it on. Shortly afterwards, it started to bubble, and clouds of hot steam moistened the kitchen window.

I took the tea bag, put it in the cup and poured the boiling water over it. The water quickly turned brown-reddish, and the taste of the tea began to be felt on my tongue at the sight and smell of it. With the cup in my hand, I returned to the living room.

The moment I switched off the light behind me in the kitchen, I saw a man sitting on the sofa. I flinched so violently in shock that the water sloshed out of the cup, and my fingers felt the stinging, burning pain. I knew I wasn’t asleep.

The man was sitting on the sofa and looking up at the night sky, as I had done before. He had black and grey hair, just like me. I knew it all well: his prominent nose, slightly sunken eyes, and a three-day beard.

“Dad?” I asked quietly. He turned his head towards me, smiled gently, as he always did when slightly melancholy, and said, “Hey, Serge”.

No one had called me by the French version of my name for almost fourteen years. Nobody had called me that before except my father.

My heart beat violently against my chest as if it was trying to break out of my ribcage like a trapped songbird. As if it was trying to get to my father, whom I had last seen in the morgue, to wrap its arms around him and hold him close.

Without looking away, I went to the opposite sofa and sat down, still holding the cup of hot tea. My father watched me in silence but continued to smile.

“Dad, what are you doing here?” I croaked. “I don’t know! I was lying in my room in the hospital when everything slowly went dark around me, and suddenly, I’m here now,” he said as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Where am I actually?” he added.

“You’re at home with me. Can’t you remember home? This is my mother-in-law’s former house. You were here a few times,”. “Oh yes! I remember!” he said with apparent enthusiasm.

“Hey Siri, turn the light 100 percent,” I spoke to the HomePod, fearing that my father would dissolve in the bright light and I would lose him again. The light slowly lit up more, shining, and to my relief, my dad was still sitting there.

“I miss you, Dad,” I interrupted the silence that had fallen again. “I miss you too, Serge. How long was I away?” he asked. “We carried you to the grave almost exactly 14 years ago,” and I felt an unpleasant pang in my stomach at the thought of that day.

“I’m dead?” He raised an eyebrow in surprise. “I think so,” I answered, tears filling my eyes. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t want to leave you alone. But I remember feeling so weak and tired,” he said thoughtfully.

“No, you don’t have to be sorry. I’m sorry that I didn’t have much time for you when you were alone in the hospital. I’m sorry that you weren’t at my wedding. I’m sorry you didn’t meet your three grandchildren,” I cried.

“I have three grandchildren? Great!” he laughed happily. “Yes! Do you want to see them?” I asked excitedly, and without waiting for an answer, I ran to the shelf with the photos. I took the album from last Christmas, “Look, here are the Boys”, and turned around. The sofa was empty.

I just stood there with the book for a while. I was paralysed by what had happened, by the joy of seeing my father alive once again, or at least something like it. And by the fact that he disappeared just as quickly as he appeared sitting on my sofa, after almost fourteen years since he had died.

The tea now seemed cold and looked dark, almost black.

“I must go to bed and take my children to school in a couple of hours” was my first real thought.

With one last look at the sofa, hoping to see my midnight visitor again, I switched off the light and went to bed.