Thursdays Are for Ghosts

The first time I noticed her was the week after the funeral. A Thursday, to be exact.

I was in the kitchen, stirring a cup of tea I hadn’t meant to make, in a house too quiet for comfort. The sugar clinked gently against the mug like footsteps on tile. I wasn’t thinking of her, not directly, not consciously. But there she was. A shape in the hallway mirror—quick, soft, and impossibly familiar.

I didn’t believe in ghosts then.

But that’s the thing about grief—it changes your definition of what’s real.

She always came on Thursdays. I never understood why. It wasn’t the day she died. It wasn’t her birthday. It was just… Thursday. Something about the day carried a weight. It settled into the floorboards, hummed in the radiator, curled into the folds of the curtains like perfume once worn too often.

At first, I tried to explain it away. Lack of sleep. Shadows from the streetlights. But there were moments—undeniable moments—when I could smell her shampoo. Or hear the soft shuffle of socks on hardwood. Once, I swear, the photo of us on the mantel tilted itself upright after I walked past it.

Maybe that was my guilt adjusting the world to keep her present. Maybe it was something else entirely.

You don’t forget a presence like hers.

Not when she used to fill a room just by entering it.

Not when her laughter could lift even the darkest morning.

And not when your last words to her were said in anger.

---

The Thursday after she left, the air felt colder. I opened all the windows despite the autumn chill. I told myself it was to let in fresh air, but part of me was hoping she’d drift in like mist, take a seat on the couch, and tell me it was okay. That I didn’t mean it. That she didn’t mean it either.

But ghosts don’t work that way. They’re not here for comfort. They come to remind you of unfinished things.

---

Every Thursday, I began a ritual.

I cleaned the house—top to bottom. I baked something, usually the lemon muffins she loved. I lit the candle she gave me one Christmas and played her favorite records on the old player she insisted wasn’t retro, just “timeless.”

And then I’d wait.

Sometimes, I’d sit on the stairs, watching the hallway like it might part open and release her into the world again. Sometimes, I’d speak aloud—not expecting a reply, but needing to say the words anyway.

"I'm sorry I didn’t come with you that night."

"I’m sorry I didn’t call back."

"I’m sorry I thought I had more time."

The wind would answer. Or the pipes. Or the eerie creak of the house settling in for the evening.

But not her voice. Never her voice.

---

One Thursday in winter, I almost forgot.

Work ran late, traffic was hell, and by the time I got home, my hands were numb and my mind was scattered. I dropped my keys, kicked off my boots, and didn’t even notice the faint scent in the air until I reached the living room.

Lemon.

And then I saw it.

A single muffin on the plate.

Warm.

Still steaming.

I didn’t cry.

Not until I sat down, broke it open, and tasted the memory.

---

I tried to talk to someone once—a therapist. I told her about the Thursdays, about the shadows and the scent, the sounds and the silence. She nodded, scribbled, used words like "coping mechanism" and "manifestation of grief." I listened. I thanked her. But I didn’t go back.

Because there are things you don’t explain.

Things that live between logic and love.

Things like Thursdays.

---

Years passed.

Life returned, slowly and stubbornly. I moved to a new city. A new job. I even smiled again—real, genuine smiles that didn’t feel like betrayal. I met people who never knew her name, never saw her laugh, never heard her sing terribly off-key in the car.

But I never made plans on Thursdays.

Even when asked, I’d say, “Thursdays are kind of my day,” and leave it at that. No one questioned it.

And every Thursday, I’d light the candle—now down to its last inch—and I’d wait. Not for her, exactly, but for that quiet presence. The one that filled the spaces she used to occupy. The one that told me: you are still holding on, but softer now.

---

Tonight is a Thursday.

The house is different, smaller, with fewer things she touched. But the candle burns. The old record plays a soft crackle. And outside, the wind moves like someone walking without sound.

I think I saw her today.

In the reflection of a window as I passed.

She didn’t stay long. Just long enough to smile.

And maybe, after all this time, she’s not a ghost anymore.

Maybe she’s a memory, finally at peace.

And maybe, so am I.