Chapter 2 - The Weight of Silence
The clinking of silverware against ceramic was the only music we had that night,
a sharp,
rhythmic sound that punctuated the suffocating quiet.
I watched the steam rise from my plate,
but the food tasted like ash in my mouth.
Every time I looked up,
the empty chair across from me seemed to grow larger,
more imposing.
The fourth glass of cider sat untouched,
the bubbles slowly dying out as the evening light faded.
Emily kept her head down,
moving her potatoes around her plate with a focus that was clearly forced.
Daniel ate in silence,
his eyes fixed on the fields outside,
mirroring the gaze his father used to have.
I wanted to scream,
to demand an explanation,
to ask why they were tormenting me with this phantom presence.
But there was something in Daniel’s face—a mixture of grief and duty—that kept me quiet.
Forty-one years I had spent with Richard,
believing him to be a simple man of the earth.
He was a farmer who loved the weather,
the crops,
and the steady rhythm of the seasons.
He was a man of few words,
a man who built things with his hands and kept his thoughts to himself.
I thought I knew every corner of his soul,
every secret hidden in his calloused palms.
Now,
as the clock on the wall ticked with a haunting regularity,
I began to wonder if I had been living with a stranger.
"The rosemary is good,
Daniel,"
I said,
trying to break the spell.
"It was Dad's favorite,"
he replied,
his voice low and heavy.
"He told me to use it tonight,"
he added,
dropping his fork.
I paused,
my heart skipping a beat.
"He told you?
Daniel,
your father has been gone for two years."
Daniel finally looked at me,
and I saw the tears shimmering in the corners of his eyes.
"He left instructions,
Mom."
"Very specific instructions."
Emily reached across the table and took Daniel’s hand,
offering a silent support.
"Instructions for what?"
I asked,
my voice rising in pitch.
"For tonight,"
Daniel said,
standing up from the table.
"The two-year mark was the deadline."
He walked toward the corner of the room,
where an old floorboard had always been slightly loose.
Richard had told me it was just the house settling,
a minor flaw in an old building.
Daniel knelt down,
his fingers prying the wood upward with a practiced ease.
My breath hitched as he reached into the dark void beneath the floor.
When he stood back up,
he was holding a wooden box,
dark and heavy,
carved from a wood I didn't recognize.
It was beautiful,
intricate,
and smelled of cedar and something metallic.
"He told me to hide this,"
Daniel whispered,
"and never to show you until two years had passed."
The box sat on the navy-blue plaid napkin,
May you like
right in front of the empty chair.
It looked like a heart waiting to be opened.
