The Light Above the Table

January 28, 2026

by Wendy

My cat Onyx was a sleek shadow of a creature, with fur as dark as midnight. He was my constant companion for twelve gentle years. But in his final days, a swift illness took his strength, leaving him still and quiet. The veterinarian told us there was nothing more to be done, and we said our goodbyes on a cold Tuesday morning.

That evening, I sat alone in the front room, trying to read a book. My eyes drifted toward the empty hallway, drawn by a sudden shimmer in the air. A soft, glowing sphere of light was floating near the ceiling. It pulsed gently, moving from the hall into the kitchen, where it vanished behind the refrigerator.

I stood, convinced my grief was playing tricks on me. But then the light reappeared, drifting silently across the kitchen doorway before descending the stairs to the cellar. It did not return. The following night, at almost the same hour, I saw it again—a brief, warm glow in the very same spot, a quiet comfort in the dark.

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