The table had been designed for twelve, inherited with the house and chosen by Emily because she loved the idea of filling it with noise. Michael used one chair. The one across from him remained untouched, always aligned, always empty, like a quiet accusation he refused to acknowledge directly.
Dinner was a ritual he endured rather than enjoyed, until the night the ritual broke.
He had just lifted his fork when he heard small footsteps crossing the floor with no sense of caution at all, followed by the scrape of a chair being pulled back with more enthusiasm than strength. Michael froze, listening, uncertain whether to speak or wait, until a clear, curious voice addressed him without hesitation.
“Are you eating by yourself?”
He turned his head toward the sound, startled by how young it was. “Yes,” he answered carefully.
“That is not good,” the child decided. “My grandma says eating alone makes food taste worse.”
Before he could respond, the chair beside him scraped closer and a small body climbed onto it with a satisfied sigh, as if this arrangement were the most natural thing in the world.
“There,” she announced. “Now you are not alone.”