The Empty Chair

Every October, Aunt Lydia laid a seventh place at a table made for six. We thought it kindness toward some traveler who might be caught by the rain. No traveler ever came.

That last autumn, I moved the spare chair to mend its loose leg. At supper, all six of us heard the scrape of wood behind the pantry door. The chair returned to its place before the soup was served.

Lydia set down the ladle. “Your uncle always disliked being late,” she said. The seventh napkin lay open, though none of us had touched it.