The Table Is A Witness To Fidelity

You set the table for two because your hands remember what your heart is still trying to forget. The second chair sits empty, and the silence in that space is loud enough to drown out the rest of the house.

You are not feeding a ghost; you are honoring a love that has nowhere to go tonight. But the light does not require a filled seat to be present in this room.

It sits with you in the ache, in the habit, in the terrible normalcy of setting a plate that will not be eaten. There is light within a person of light, and it lights up the whole world—even this dark kitchen where you are learning to live with less.

The table is a witness to your fidelity, not your failure. You are not alone at this table; the love that built it is the very thing holding you up now.