Albert was a fine cook. He was preparing a feast, for it was his birthday, and he expected a visit from his mother.

He hummed as he stirred the green pepper sauce. The pork was almost done, the potato gratin ready to go into the warmed oven. He added grated Gruyère and slid it in. Waving his hand over the pans, he breathed in the ambrosial aroma, nodding to himself.

#

The ancient oak tree stood silent, the evening sun sketching its shadow on the old house.

It was Albert’s birthday. He was ten years old. He ran back and forth from the kitchen to the living room, harassing the French cook and his mother simultaneously as they prepared for the party.

#

While the food was simmering, he went to the dining room. Albert wanted it to look elegant for his special guest. He centred his finest tablecloth before setting the plate, silverware and two crystal glasses; one for water and one for wine. He brought a vase with her favourite flowers, and the silver candelabras. Taking a few steps back to study the effect, he smiled. 

#

The ancient oak tree branches caressed the window as the wind grew in strength. 

His mother laughed when he barged into the living room, asking for the fourth time what his present would be.

#

He sniffed the air appreciatively and turned off the gas. After pouring the sauce over the meat, he moved on to the dessert. The apples were peeled and chopped before being sprinkled with cinnamon. He then prepared the crumble, whistling as he expertly worked the mixture with his fingertips. He placed the dessert in the oven and left to get ready.

#

The ancient oak tree branches knocked on the windows. Night had fallen. 

His mother sent him up to get ready. He was to wear a suit for the first time and felt proud to be so grown up.

#

Albert climbed the old wooden staircase, wincing in his effort to avoid the third step—as he had for fifty years.

He put on his suit, glanced at his reflection, and patted his grey hair before making his way back down to the kitchen.

He placed the food on a silver tray and brought it to the table, whistling softly. By the time he fetched the water and the wine, he was silent. Albert poured himself a glass, sat down, and waited, fidgeting with the cutlery.

#

The ancient oak tree branches tapped furiously against the closed shutters.

After dinner, his mother went up to get his present. He beamed with anticipation when her heels…

#

…resonated on the staircase. Cold sweat trickled down his spine. He rubbed his sticky palms on his napkin, holding his breath.

The body tumbled down the stairs. The fall stopped on the third step. 

Albert didn’t move.

 The temperature in the room grew colder. He trembled as an ethereal shape materialised on the other side of the table.

“Good evening, Mother.”

***

Delphine Gauthier-Georgakopoulos (she/her) is a Breton writer, teacher, mother, nature and music lover, foodie, dreamer. She loves butter, needs coffee, hates easy opening packaging, and likes to create stories in her head. She lives in Athens, Greece. Twitter & Facebook at @DelGeo14. https://delphinegg.weebly.com/