Short Story: The Light on the Windowsill

The Light on the Windowsill

Every evening at exactly the same time, Margaret noticed the light.

It appeared on the windowsill opposite her favourite chair — not bright, not dim, just there. A soft glow, like a candle remembered rather than lit. She had lived in the house for forty years and knew every trick of shadow and streetlamp, yet this was different. This light had a feeling.

At first, she told herself it was nothing. Tired eyes. Wishful thinking. Grief, perhaps — because grief has a way of turning up quietly when the world slows down.

Her husband, Tom, had always sat by that window. Tea in hand. Humming tunelessly. Watching the world without needing to be in it. When he passed, the chair remained. The window stayed. But the evenings grew unbearably still.

Until the light arrived.

One night, instead of turning away, Margaret spoke.

“I see you,” she said softly, her voice trembling despite herself. “I don’t know what you are… but I see you.”

The light didn’t change — but something in the room did. The air felt warmer. Familiar. Like a favourite jumper pulled over aching shoulders.

She began to talk to it after that. Not every night. Just when the silence felt heavy. She spoke of ordinary things — the cat’s mischief, the neighbour’s roses, the ache in her hands when it rained. She never asked questions. She didn’t need answers.

One evening, she placed Tom’s old mug on the sill. Without thinking. Without ceremony.

The light grew just a little brighter.

Margaret smiled then — the kind of smile that comes from deep recognition, not happiness exactly, but peace. She understood something without words: that love doesn’t disappear, it changes its way of being seen.

Years later, when Margaret was gone, the new owner of the house noticed something strange. Every evening, at exactly the same time, a soft glow appeared on the windowsill.

And somehow, standing in that room, they felt less alone.