The Light Sits in the Empty Chair

The cabinet door opens, and your hand reaches for the second plate before your mind remembers the silence. That pause—where the habit of love outlasts the presence of the beloved—is the deepest kind of grief.

You set the table for a ghost, then feel the sickness rise when the chair stays empty. But listen: the light does not flee from your forgetting.

It sits in the empty chair. It waits in the space where the second plate should be.

The darkness has not overcome it. Even now, in this quiet kitchen, the true light is shining.

You are not alone at the table. The One who knows your hunger is already seated, waiting for you to see that the love remains, even when the hands are gone.