The Empty Chair

Every morning, just as the sun filtered through the slatted blinds and bathed the little café by the square in a soft gold glow, he would come. Crisp coat, dark eyes, and that quiet kind of grace that made him look like he’d stepped out of a half-remembered dream. He never spoke much, only nodded at the barista, and always took the same seat — the one by the window, second from the end. That chair knew his shape. The table remembered his fingers.

He’d order a single espresso. No sugar. No milk. And he’d sip it slowly, as though tasting a memory.

That was where she found him. She was the kind of girl who wore joy like perfume. She floated in one afternoon, holding her book like it was a shield and a secret at once. She asked for tea — always tea — and wrinkled her nose at his espresso like it was poison.

“Coffee is a bitter habit,” she’d say with a smirk, taking her place at the table beside him, her cup steaming with chamomile or jasmine. “Tea is poetry. Coffee is politics.”

He would raise an eyebrow and reply, “Politics keeps the world running. Poetry just makes it pretty.”

And like that, it began.

They didn’t fall in love — they danced into it. In glances, in laughter, in long afternoons where the rain blurred the world beyond the window and the clink of her spoon stirred more than just tea.

They argued about books, music, what kind of bird would best represent the soul. She said robin; he said raven. They whispered sweet nothings, full of everything. When she laughed, the café felt brighter. When he looked at her, the world paused.

Every evening, she would rise reluctantly, wrap her scarf, and promise, “Tomorrow, same place.” And he would nod, watching her walk away as though the sky itself had shifted hues.

But one day, she didn’t come.

And the day after that, the chair by his side remained empty. He still sat there, silent, sipping his espresso, watching the door.

Time passed differently in the café. The baristas changed. The music softened. The world rushed forward while he remained, always arriving with the morning sun, always taking his seat by the window.

Years later, she returned.

She wore time like a well-tailored coat — still lovely, still wistful, now with a hand resting lightly on a husband’s arm, children trailing her laughter like ribbons.

She ordered tea.

And as her family chatted, her eyes flickered — just for a moment — to that seat by the window. The second from the end. Her gaze lingered. Her smile faded, softening into something fragile.

The chair was empty. But she knew.

She always knew.

He sat there still, unseen by the world, his ghost sipping espresso, waiting for a girl who drank tea and once promised tomorrow.

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