The Light Pulls Up A Chair

The house is quiet now, but the silence feels heavy, like a coat you cannot take off. You set the table for one, and the empty chairs seem to shout louder than any conversation could.

It is a strange kind of grief, to sit where laughter used to be and pretend the absence does not ache. But listen — the light does not require a crowd to be real.

There is a promise that where even two or three gather in the name of the light, presence is there. And if presence can live in the gathering, it can also live in the solitude.

You are not dining alone. The light has pulled up a chair at your table.

It is not a ghost. It is not a memory.

It is the only guest who never leaves. The empty seat is not a verdict.

It is an invitation.