Leave the Light On

The porch light never went out.

Not even after he walked away.

Claire couldn’t quite recall when lighting the porch became a nightly habit. Perhaps it was the first week after her brother Evan vanished. Or maybe it began the night their mother died, when Claire returned to an empty house that felt twice as lonely. Whatever the cause, for the past twelve years, without fail, she switched on the porch light before heading to bed.

Just in case.

Now the clock was ticking towards midnight. The wind swept through the trees, rustling dry leaves across the driveway in a skein of hushed confidences. Claire sat in her kitchen, tightening her fists around a mug of hot chamomile tea. She disliked the taste, but the ritual gave something to hold on to, a little comfort

The old clock above the fridge ticked quietly. 11:49 p.m.

It had been twelve years since Evan had left in a storm of grief after their father’s funeral. He’d said he couldn’t bear it anymore — this house heavy with sorrow and silent demands. Claire begged him to stay. Their mother wept for days. But Evan never looked back.

At first, Claire believed he needed time — weeks, maybe. But weeks stretched into months. Letters remained unanswered. Holidays passed with one less chair at the table. After two years, their mother stopped asking if Evan would call. But Claire never lost hope.

He was more than her brother — he was her closest friend, her shield, the one who’d leave silly notes in her lunchbox and share his Halloween candy.

Even when everyone else said to move on, Claire left the light on. Just in case.

She rose and approached the front door. Through the frosted glass, the porch glowed warmly. The wind had grown louder, rattling branches against the window like fragile bones.

Then — a knock.

Soft. Hesitant. Yet clear.

Her heart jumped. Had she imagined it? Was it hope playing tricks?

Another knock, louder this time.

Trembling, she reached for the doorknob. And opened it.

There he was.

Older. Weary. A scar arched above his eyebrow she hadn’t seen before. Thinner, his shoulders slumped beneath a worn coat, a battered backpack dangling from one arm. But it was him.

“Evan?” Her voice faltered.

He nodded slowly. “Hey, Claire.”

She said nothing, afraid a blink might make him vanish. Afraid he was just a dream.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d still be here,” he said.

“I wasn’t sure you’d ever come back,” she whispered.

His gaze flicked to the porch light. “You kept it on.”

Claire swallowed hard. “I told you I would.”

He stood still for a moment, then quietly, “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just... didn’t know where else to go.”

“You’re home now,” she said, stepping aside. “That’s what matters.”

He hesitated before stepping inside. The air between them shifted, as if the house itself was finally breathing again.

Claire led him to the kitchen table where they once played cards and fought over the last cookie. It felt unreal — like time folded back on itself to bring them here.

She poured tea. He grimaced.

“You still drink this stuff?” he asked, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

She chuckled — awkward at first, then genuine. “I don’t even like it. It’s just... habit.”

He laughed. “Some things don’t change.”

They talked for hours. Not everything, but enough. About where he’d been, the jobs he’d taken, the people he’d met. About the guilt that weighed heavier with every year away.

“I thought you hated me,” he said quietly.

Claire looked down. “I hated that you left. Not you.”

He fell silent. “I thought I was doing the right thing. But I only got lost.”

“You weren’t alone,” she whispered.

Silence settled between them — not heavy, but healing.

The clock chimed 3:12 a.m.

“You should get some rest,” Claire said softly.

“I’ll crash on the couch,” Evan replied, pulling a blanket over his knees.

As Claire rose to leave, he called out, “Claire?”

She turned.

“Thanks for leaving the light on.”

Tears brimmed in her eyes as she smiled. “Always.”