The Invisible Guest Pulls Up A Chair

The sun is going down, and the silence in the kitchen feels heavier than the day itself. You stare at the empty space on the counter where the second plate used to be, and the absence feels like a physical weight.

But the light does not require two to be real. It does not depend on the fullness of the table to shine.

There is a presence that stands at the door and knocks, not to demand entry, but simply to come in and eat with you. You do not have to set a place for it; it sits where you are.

The grief is real, but so is the companion who refuses to let you eat alone. The empty space is not a sign of abandonment; it is the very place where the invisible guest pulls up a chair.