Dining in the House of Love

The kitchen is quiet, save for the sound of chopping and the smell of something you used to make for two. You move through the motions of care, muscle memory setting a second plate on the table before the truth catches up with you.

The empty chair sits there, a silent accusation in the middle of the afternoon. You pause, fork in hand, staring at the space where a person should be.

In that stillness, you are not forgotten. You are the vessel where the memory of love still lives, warm and real.

The light does not ask you to clear the extra plate immediately. It sits with you in the ache of the routine, in the middle of the day when the distraction stops and the missing feels heaviest.

You set the table for one, but you are feeding a heart that knows how to love beyond presence. The meal is not less holy because the other chair is empty.

The love that cooked this food is the same love that holds you now. You are not eating alone; you are dining in the house of a love that death could not interrupt.