Chapter 1 - The Ghost at the Table
The smell of fresh rosemary was the first thing that greeted me,
drifting through the hallway like a ghost from a past life.
I stood at the threshold of Daniel’s home,
the weight of the apple pie heavy in my hands,
while the familiar scent tugged at memories I thought I had tucked away.
Rosemary had been Richard’s signature,
his silent calling card in every meal he touched,
and seeing it used today felt like a whisper from the grave.
Daniel opened the door with a smile that reached his eyes,
but there was a tightness in his shoulders I didn't recognize.
"Mom,
you made dessert again,"
he said,
taking the warm dish from my hands.
"You say that every time,
and somehow the pie still disappears,"
I replied,
trying to keep my voice light.
The farmhouse felt warm,
filled with the aroma of butter,
garlic,
and freshly baked bread.
It was the kind of Sunday evening Richard had always insisted on,
a time for family,
good food,
and the quiet hum of the countryside.
I stepped into the dining room,
ready to set the cider down,
but the sight before me made the breath hitch in my throat.
The table was meticulously set for four people.
Four white dinner plates,
glistening under the soft chandelier light.
Four glasses,
standing in a perfect row.
Four folded linen napkins,
crisp and white.
Four cloth placemats,
centered with mathematical precision.
I counted them again,
my heart beginning to pulse in my ears.
Daniel,
his wife Emily,
myself,
and the fourth seat.
My eyes drifted to the chair nearest the window,
the one that faced the rolling fields Richard used to plow.
A navy-blue plaid napkin rested there,
a small bowl of cracked black pepper sitting beside the plate.
Richard never ate without his pepper,
a small eccentricity that now felt like a punch to the stomach.
The chair was the old oak one,
the one he claimed because it gave him the best view of the horizon.
No one had sat in that chair for two years,
not since the day we lowered him into the earth.
I stood frozen,
the bottle of cider cold against my palm,
waiting for someone to tell me it was a mistake.
Daniel appeared at my side,
his face reflecting the golden light of the room.
He didn't look at me,
focusing instead on adjusting a fork that was already perfectly straight.
"Honey...
why are there four places?"
I asked,
my voice trembling.
Emily stepped out of the kitchen,
the steam from a casserole dish framing her face.
She looked at Daniel,
then at me,
and a heavy silence filled the room.
"Dinner's almost ready,"
she said,
her voice gentle but lacking its usual cheer.
"Daniel?"
I pressed,
watching him rub the back of his neck.
It was a habit he had inherited from his father,
a physical manifestation of a mind under pressure.
"Mom..."
he started,
his voice cracking,
"let's eat first."
The request was simple,
but the air in the room felt thick with secrets.
Richard had been gone for exactly two years to the day,
and somehow,
this empty chair was more haunting than the headstone in the churchyard.
I pulled out my own chair,
feeling the weight of forty-one years of marriage pressing down on me.
"I'm not upset,"
I whispered,
"I just don't understand."
Daniel didn't answer,
he just poured the cider,
May you like
filling the fourth glass halfway,
exactly the way Richard used to do.
