The Photograph on the Mantle

The afternoon before my mother’s birthday, I found an old photograph of her father, a man I never knew. Holding the faded picture, I whispered, “I would have liked to meet you.”

That night, I slept in the guest room next to my mother’s. I awoke suddenly, needing a drink. As I walked back from the kitchen, I noticed a soft light coming from her doorway. Peering inside, I saw a shimmering form, like gentle sunlight, standing beside her bed.

My breath caught as the glowing shape turned toward me. It was the man from the photograph, but alive and warm. He gave me a kind, knowing look, full of peace. He moved silently around the room, paused for a moment as if to say goodbye, and then faded away.

At breakfast, my mother dismissed my story as a dream. But my sister looked up from her cereal, her eyes wide. “I saw him too,” she said quietly. We were the only ones who understood. Our mother just smiled softly and poured more juice.