The sound the night makes

It started with the porch light flickering.

Not out—not yet—just that kind of stammer a bulb gets when something’s shifting in the wires. Or maybe in the air. Or maybe just in you.

Mae noticed it the moment the sun tucked itself behind the pines and left the sky a low-bellied kind of purple. She was sitting in the rocker that still held her mama’s shape, even now, five years gone. The air was thick with gardenia and something else—something that smelled like a question left too long in the dark.

She hadn’t meant to stay out this late, not really. But the day had fallen quiet in that sideways way, and there was something about the hush of it that pinned her in place. A stillness that didn’t ask but waited.

The gravel drive hadn’t heard tires in months, but she kept the porch swept anyway. Kept the house clean enough for a visitor. Or a ghost.

It was the kind of night that makes a person remember who they used to be.

By ten, the wind had picked up—soft, sure, with the taste of rain in it. The kind of wind that slips its fingers beneath your collar and whispers something you don’t quite catch but feel just the same. Mae pulled the afghan tighter around her legs and watched the sycamore across the yard shiver like it knew something.

The stars were shy tonight. Only a handful scattered like seeds across the velvet. The moon hadn’t risen yet, and the dark was more honest for it.

Inside the house, the phone rang once and stopped. Just enough to wake a thought.

She didn’t move.

At eleven, a doe stepped out from the woods, like a thought made flesh. Quiet. Careful. The kind of creature that belongs to dusk and dreams. Mae held her breath. They watched each other for a moment too long, like both were waiting for the other to flinch.

When the deer turned and walked the edge of the yard, Mae felt something inside her echo the shape of it.

She used to believe in signs. In omens and meaning and gut feelings. But grief had a way of sanding down all the edges you used to trust.

Still. The porch light flickered again.

At midnight, the wind died.

No breeze. No sound. Just the soft tick of her own heartbeat in her ears.

Mae stood. Her knees didn’t like it, but they followed orders. She moved into the house like she was walking through water, the air heavier now. The old wood floors creaked a welcome she didn’t ask for. Or maybe it was a warning.

She didn’t turn on any lights. Let her eyes learn the shape of the dark again.

She hadn’t been in this room since March.

Since the day the letter came.

It still sat on the table, yellowed at the edges. The handwriting curled like smoke. Her name spelled out so neat it hurt.

She didn’t need to read it. She knew every word. Knew the way it ended.

Not with love,

but with regret.

One thirty.

The rain started like it didn’t mean to, then came hard all at once—loud on the tin roof, loud in her chest. Mae sat at the kitchen table and let it wash against the silence. She thought about every moment that led here.

How she never answered.

How she never went to him.

How she said she was fine, even when the truth sat hot in her throat.

Some nights you hold your peace so long it forgets it was ever a burden.

But tonight, the night wanted something different.

Outside, thunder growled its warning.

Inside, Mae stood and walked to the front door.

Two fifteen.

The porch was wet but wide open, waiting. The rain had softened to a hush again, the way secrets sound when they’re done yelling. The sycamore glistened in the dark, and the deer was gone. In its place, nothing. But it was a knowing nothing. Like the empty space beside a name in a family Bible.

Mae stood at the edge of the porch and looked out over the yard. She said his name, just once.

It didn’t echo. Didn’t carry.

But it answered.

Somewhere low in her chest, something cracked—not painful, but bright. Like the first breath after crying. Like the porch light flickering back to life after a long power outage.

By three, she was rocking again, slow and steady. The afghan had slipped to the floor, and she didn’t bother picking it up. The air had changed. Clean, cool. Like the land had exhaled.

She thought about calling.

She thought about the road.

She thought about how much could still grow, even in soil that had been left to harden.

And maybe she didn’t believe in signs anymore,

but she believed in this:

that some nights are meant to break you open,

and others are meant to show you you’re still whole.

3:24 AM.

A soft knock.

Mae didn’t move at first. Just blinked.

Could’ve been a branch.

Could’ve been nothing.

But then it came again.

Three gentle taps. Not hurried. Not loud.

Like whoever stood there knew she was already listening.

She rose.

The screen door let out its old breath as she opened it, slow. Careful.

There was no one there.

No footprints on the porch.

No shape on the steps.

Just air.

Then, from the corner of her eye—

movement.

Something at the tree line.

She stepped off the porch, barefoot in the wet grass, the night breathing against her like it had something to confess.

A figure. Still. Just beyond the sycamore.

Tall.

Too tall.

Watching.

“Hello?” Mae called, heart beginning to quicken.

It didn’t answer.

She squinted. Took a step forward.

The shape shifted, slow—just a lean of the head—and Mae felt her stomach pull tight. There was something wrong about the way it stood. Not curious. Not startled.

Expectant.

She backed up.

The figure didn’t move.

But the silence did. It bent inward. The crickets stopped.

She turned toward the house.

That’s when she heard it.

The front door slamming shut.

From the inside.

Her breath caught sharp in her throat.

She ran.

The screen door flew open with a cry, hinges screaming. The house was dark. Too dark.

Mae reached for the light switch—nothing. The bulb was dead, humming low like a throat about to growl.

She grabbed the fire poker from beside the hearth and edged backward. Her lungs shallow. Her mouth dry.

A whisper, behind her—

her name.

Soft as thread pulled through cotton.

She spun, swinging—

Hit air.

And then she saw the letter.

It was gone from the table.

In its place: a single gardenia bloom.

Fresh. Beaded with rain.

Mae’s knees buckled.

He was dead.

She knew he was dead.

She had seen the obituary. Read the letter a dozen times.

But something had come anyway.

The hallway creaked.

She wasn’t alone.

Mae gripped the poker so tight her fingers numbed. She moved backward toward the door, slow and shaking. Thunder cracked.

At the end of the hallway, a figure stood in the dark. Unmoving.

Her voice barely worked. “What do you want?”

It stepped forward.

Not fast.

Not slow.

Its face half-lit now by the flicker of lightning through the window—

It was him.

Ben.

But not as she remembered him.

Not young. Not old.

Not right.

His eyes were wide. Not blinking.

And his mouth opened—

but not to speak.

To smile.

Mae screamed.

She ran. Out the back door. Through the mud. Into the trees.

Rain in her eyes. In her ears.

Branches tore her skin. Roots caught at her feet.

Behind her, the sound of steps—not chasing, just following.

Calm.

Certain.

She didn’t stop until she reached the creek.

The one they used to walk to as kids.

The one they’d carved initials near, under the old cedar.

Mae turned, breath ragged.

No one.

Only the wind.

Only the sound the night makes

when it’s finished waiting.

By dawn, the world softened.

Birdsong. Mist.

Mae stood soaked to the bone.

Shaking.

Eyes wide.

Behind her, the woods were still.

Before her, the sun rose slow and gold.

She didn’t go back to the house.

Not then.

Not for a long time.

And when she did,

the letter was back on the table.

Dry.

Folded neat.

But in a new envelope.

With her name written again—this time in red.

And beside it, one word scrawled in shaky hand:

“Answer.”