Last night, I helped a woman carry some heavy bags home

“The woman you helped last night,” the officer said slowly, “was found dead this morning.”

For a second, I couldn’t breathe. My mind went blank. The same woman who could barely carry her groceries, who smiled at me with gratitude, was now… gone?

“What are you talking about?” I whispered. “I just helped her. I swear, I didn’t do anything.”

The officer studied my face, searching for any sign of guilt. “We’re not accusing you,” he said, “but your fingerprints were found inside her house. And we need to understand what happened.”

I felt my stomach twist. Of course my fingerprints were there — I carried her bags, I touched the door handle. But how could I explain that without sounding suspicious?

They took me to the station for questioning. The room smelled like dust and coffee. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, flickering slightly. I sat down at the table, and a younger officer began writing in his notebook.

“Tell us everything,” he said. “From the moment you saw her.”

So I did. I told them about her voice, her trembling hands, how she could barely walk, and how I left her alive, standing in the doorway. Every word I said felt like walking through fog — uncertain, heavy, unreal.

When I finished, silence filled the room. Then the younger officer glanced at his colleague, who nodded and slid a photograph across the table.

“Is this the woman you helped?”

I looked at the photo — and my heart skipped a beat. It was her, but not quite. The same eyes, the same wrinkles… but her hair was shorter, and the clothes were different. “Yes… I think so,” I said, unsure.

The officer sighed. “This woman died three years ago.”

I froze. “What?”

He nodded. “Same name, same house, same everything. Her neighbors said they saw someone walking beside her last night — a man carrying bags. But when we arrived, the house was empty. No trace of her inside, just the groceries on the table.”

My hands went cold. I could still feel the weight of those bags, the warmth of her frail hand when she thanked me.

“So… what are you saying? That I helped a ghost?”

No one answered. The younger officer just closed his notebook and stood up. “You’re free to go,” he said quietly. “But if you remember anything else… anything at all, call us.”

I walked home through the dark streets, trembling. The wind was colder than usual, and every shadow seemed alive. When I reached my gate, I noticed something on my doorstep. A small paper bag. Inside — an apple, a loaf of bread, and a folded note.

My hands shook as I opened it. The handwriting was elegant, old-fashioned.

“Thank you, dear. You carried more than just my bags.”

My heart stopped. I looked around, but the street was empty. The night was silent, except for the whisper of the wind through the trees.

Since that day, I never pass that corner without feeling her presence. Sometimes, when the streetlights flicker, I could swear I see her — standing there with her shopping bags, smiling faintly, as if to say she’s finally at peace.

And I still don’t know what terrifies me more: that I helped a ghost… or that she might still be waiting for me.