The Glass That Waits

The afternoon sun bled through the dusty window of the water refilling station, casting long, distorted shadows across the concrete floor. My father was sprawled on the old rattan sofa, his breathing slow and heavy in the heat. I was at the counter, wiping down the plastic gallon jugs, when our delivery boy, Marco, burst in from the side door.

‘Boss, there’s an old woman out back, by the stacked pallets,’ he said, his voice shaky. ‘She’s asking for water, kind of… gesturing.’

My father stirred, rubbing his eyes. ‘What old woman?’ he asked, irritation in his voice. Marco pointed toward the back exit. ‘She’s just standing there, wearing a faded brown dress. She keeps doing this,’ he said, mimicking a slow, beckoning motion with his hand, palm up, as if asking for something.

My father grunted and shuffled to the back door, squinting into the harsh light. The yard was empty except for a stray cat slinking along the fence. ‘There’s no one there, Marco. You’re seeing things,’ he said, closing the door.

But Marco was insistent. ‘She was there, I swear! She didn’t say a word, just stood there and crooked her finger at me, then pointed to the water cooler.’ He shivered despite the heat.

That night, I couldn’t shake Marco’s description. I told my wife, Elena, about it, and she grew quiet. ‘That sounds like the woman who used to live in the house down the street,’ she said. ‘The one who died years ago. She was always asking for water.’ I didn’t sleep well.

The next day, Marco refused to go near the back storage area. So I went myself to check the inventory. As I stepped outside, the air felt thick, almost sticky. There, by the pile of empty gallon jugs, stood a woman in a faded brown dress. Her face was pale, her eyes milky, and she raised a hand, palm up, and slowly curled her fingers toward me. I felt a cold dread wash over me. I took an automatic step back, and she was gone.

I rushed inside and told Marco to take the rest of the day off. He didn’t argue. My father thought I was losing my mind too, but I couldn’t dismiss what I saw. That evening, I called my mother, who lived with us then, and asked if anyone in our family matched that description. She went silent. ‘Your great-grandmother,’ she finally said. ‘She wore a brown dress like that. She was known for asking for water at every house, but she always refused to drink from any cup but her own. She died of thirst in a drought, they say.’

I felt a chill run down my spine. The next day, I decided to leave a glass of water on the back step, hoping it would satisfy whatever was there. I placed it on a small wooden stool and went back inside. An hour later, I checked: the glass was empty, but it was dry, as if the water had evaporated instantly.

The visits continued. Every afternoon, around three, I would see her from the corner of my eye, always just at the edge of my vision. She never spoke, but her gesture became more urgent, her hand trembling. I started leaving out a bowl of water instead, but the same thing happened. I felt her growing more agitated.

One night, I woke to hear a faint tapping at the back door. I peered through the window, and there she was, pressed against the glass, her mouth open in a silent plea. I saw her hand clutching something—a small, cracked ceramic cup. I knew then what she wanted. She wanted her own cup filled.

I searched the house. In an old trunk in the attic, among moth-eaten clothes and yellowed papers, I found a small, chipped ceramic cup. It was dusty and unused. That night, I filled it with fresh water and placed it on the stool. I waited, holding my breath. The woman appeared, her eyes now clear, her hand reaching for the cup. She drank, and for the first time, she smiled. Then she faded, and the cup was empty, but a damp ring remained on the wood.

I never saw her again. But every afternoon, I pour water into that tiny cup and set it outside. It’s a small ritual, a way to honor her memory. But sometimes, when the air is still, I feel a presence watching me, and I wonder if it was really thirst she had, or something else. The cup, I realize, was never meant to be filled with water alone—it waits for something more, something I don’t yet understand. And I’m afraid that one day, it will ask for it.