The neighbors said it was strange.
Every evening at exactly 6:00 p.m., the lights would flick on in the little yellow house at the end of the lane. And just like clockwork, Mr. Harris would appear in the kitchen window—setting the table.
Two plates.
Two glasses.
Two neatly folded cloth napkins.
But only one chair ever got filled.
No one really spoke to Mr. Harris after his wife, Lorna, passed. They had been married 51 years. The kind of couple who didn’t say much in public but never seemed to stop loving each other quietly.
The day after her funeral, the table setting started.
Every night, for weeks. For months.
Even on Christmas. Even during storms.
One day, a delivery boy finally asked, “Sir… do you want me to take the second plate back to the kitchen?”
Mr. Harris smiled softly.
“No,” he said. “She cooked for me for five decades. I can set her place for a few more.”
Weeks passed.
Then, one evening, the lights flicked on as usual—but this time, there were three plates on the table.
A neighbor’s young grandson had come to deliver groceries that day. He asked Mr. Harris if he ever got lonely.
Mr. Harris had paused, looked out the window, and said, “I miss the noise. The voices. The clinking of forks and glasses. It used to mean something.”
So the boy stayed.
And ate.
And laughed at Mr. Harris’s old jokes and even helped him fold the napkins afterward.
The next night, the boy came back.
Then the boy’s parents. Then other neighbors.
No one ever took Lorna’s seat—but they filled the room with the sounds she loved.
Mr. Harris never stopped setting her place. Not once.
Because for him, love wasn’t about who was there.
It was about remembering who made the table worth gathering around.
💬 Final Thought:
Some people leave a seat at the table long after they’re gone.
Not out of grief…
But out of gratitude.
