The Amber Night

It was a Tuesday in late April, and I was slumped on the couch, the glow of the television painting the room in muted blues. My name is Sarah, and I’d been existing, not living, since my mother, Eleanor, had passed in November. We’d been inseparable, a tangle of shared jokes and silent understandings, and her absence was a physical ache. I’d felt her presence, though, in subtle ways—a whiff of her lavender perfume in the hallway, the familiar creak of her chair in the kitchen—but I’d dismissed them as grief’s tricks.

That night, as a cooking show droned on, a sharp, bright amber flash erupted to my left, like a giant match being struck in the dark. I flinched, shielding my eyes. The flash coalesced, swirling into a column of light that began to take a human form. My heart slammed against my ribs. The features sharpened—a familiar jawline, those kind eyes that had seen me through every scrape. It was Eleanor. I gasped, and the light faded as quickly as it had come, leaving only a faint warmth in the air.

I blinked, disoriented, and then I noticed a stirring under the blanket on the armchair beside me. A shape, unmistakably human, lay beneath the crocheted throw I’d made for Mom years ago. Then her voice, soft and plaintive, exactly as I’d heard it a thousand times: ‘I’m cold.’ The words hung in the air, and without thought, I rose, fetched the thick quilt from my bed, and gently laid it over the form. The shape settled, and I heard the rhythmic rise and fall of breath—the same steady pattern I’d listened to during her final months. I began to talk, the way I used to, rambling about my day, about the neighbor’s new dog, about anything to keep the moment alive. The blankets rose and fell in time with her breathing. We spent the whole night like that, until the gray dawn crept through the blinds.

The next morning, I felt an odd lightness, but also a gnawing need for provisions. I had to go out. I kissed the empty air near her chair, whispered, ‘I’ll be right back, Mom,’ and grabbed my keys. The tiny corner market was three blocks away, and I rushed, a strange urgency propelling me. As I walked back, my phone buzzed: a reminder that her life insurance check had been deposited. I shook my head, pocketing the phone.

When I unlocked the apartment door, the air was thick and cold. The quilt was on the floor, crumpled. The armchair was empty. I dropped the groceries and ran through the rooms, calling her name. Nothing. I sank onto the couch, my breath coming in shallow gasps. Then I saw it—a folded piece of paper on the coffee table, weighted by the remote. I picked it up. In her unmistakable, elegant script, it read: ‘Had to go, sweetheart. You have everything you need. I’ll always be in the amber light.’ I clutched the note, and as I did, the room warmed. I looked out the window. The sun was setting, casting a soft amber glow across the skyline.

That night, I didn’t feel her, but I didn’t feel lonely either. The amber light became my companion, a constant presence in the house. I started to notice it in the gleam of the kettle, in the reflection on the window, in the last rays of sunset. And sometimes, when I was especially still, I’d hear her breathing, gentle and reassuring. It was then I understood: death didn’t steal her love. It only changed the way she held me—in a warm, golden glow that would never fade.