The Second Place Setting

Every evening at six-thirty, Eleanor sets the table for two.

She does it without fail. Without rush. Without variation.

The dining room window faces west, and at that hour, the light turns the glass of the cabinet doors into molten amber. She waits for that exact softness before unfolding the cream-colored cloth. She smooths it twice with the flat of her hands, left to right. Always left to right.

Then come the plates.

Two porcelain plates with a thin gold rim. Wedding china. She places the first one in front of her usual chair. The second across from it, aligned precisely with the pattern in the wood floor.

Fork on the left. Knife on the right. Spoon above.

Two glasses. One for water. One for wine.

She does not drink the wine.

She never has.

The bottle, however, is always opened.

It has been eleven months since Thomas died.

The neighbors were kind in the beginning. They brought casseroles and quiet condolences. They told her grief had no timeline. That ritual was healthy. That routine would keep her steady.

None of them asked why she continued cooking for two.

The first time she set his plate after the funeral, her hands trembled so badly she nearly dropped it. By the fifth evening, the shaking stopped. By the tenth, it felt necessary.

Because love, she told herself, is built from repetition.

And Thomas had loved dinner at six-thirty.

The ritual is exact.

Roasted vegetables arranged clockwise on both plates. Protein centered. Sauce drizzled in a thin arc, never pooling. The bread sliced evenly, four pieces each, though she eats only one.

At six forty-five, she sits.

She folds her napkin on her lap.

She waits.

The house settles around her — soft plumbing knocks, distant ticking in the hallway clock. Outside, a car passes every few minutes, headlights sweeping briefly across the ceiling.

At six forty-seven, she lifts her fork.

She eats slowly. Chews deliberately. Speaks occasionally.

“I tried the thyme tonight,” she might say into the quiet. “The fresh kind.”

Or, “Mrs. Alden’s dog got out again.”

She does not look at his chair while speaking.

She has learned not to.

The first time it happened, she blamed herself.

She woke the morning after one of these dinners and entered the dining room to clear the table. She always leaves it overnight — the plates unwashed, the glasses half-full, the bottle uncorked. It feels wrong to dismantle the evening too soon.

But that morning, Thomas’s water glass was no longer aligned with the knife.

It sat slightly closer to the edge of the table.

Only an inch.

She frowned at it for a long time. She considered drafts, vibrations, imbalance in the wood floor. She tested the table with her palms to see if it shifted.

It didn’t.

She adjusted the glass back into position and carried everything to the sink.

That night, she was extra careful.

She memorized the placement before going to bed.

The next morning, the wine glass had turned — not moved across the table, but rotated. The delicate seam in the crystal faced toward her chair instead of the window.

She did not touch it at first.

She stood in the doorway with her arms wrapped around herself, staring at that small defiance of order.

Grief does strange things, she reminded herself.

Memory slips. Hands forget what they’ve done.

Still, she began taking photographs before sleeping.

Quietly. Methodically. As proof.

The pattern did not repeat every night.

Some mornings, everything remained exactly where it belonged.

Those were the hardest days.

Because the absence of disturbance felt heavier than the shift.

But then it would happen again.

A fork angled differently.

A crumb missing from bread she had not eaten.

Once — only once — Thomas’s chair pulled back half an inch from the table.

She measured it with a ruler.

She told no one.

It felt private. Intimate.

It felt like something earned through devotion.

On the first anniversary of his death, Eleanor roasted lamb.

It had been his favorite.

She polished the glasses longer than usual. Trimmed the candle wick. Pressed her palms to the tablecloth and whispered, “Please.”

She didn’t know what she was asking for.

At six forty-five, she sat.

The candle flame flickered though no window was open.

She kept her eyes on her plate.

“I remember the first time you cooked for me,” she said softly. “You burned the carrots.”

Silence answered.

At six fifty-one, something changed.

It wasn’t dramatic. Not a sound, not a movement.

Just a shift in the air — like the pressure before rain.

Her breathing slowed.

Very carefully, she lifted her eyes.

Thomas’s chair was not empty.

It wasn’t occupied either.

It looked… used.

The cushion slightly compressed. The back tilted a degree farther than she left it.

Her throat tightened.

“Thank you for coming,” she whispered.

She did not move.

If she moved, it might break.

They stayed like that for an hour — her staring at that almost-presence, the candle burning lower, the food cooling.

At eight o’clock, the pressure lifted.

The chair returned to itself.

She exhaled.

And smiled.

After that night, the disturbances became more frequent.

Not violent. Not frightening.

But undeniable.

Two crumbs missing instead of one.

The wine level lowering — barely perceptible.

A faint indentation on the opposite pillow upstairs.

Eleanor began speaking more during dinner.

She described her day in detail. Asked questions. Paused as if listening.

Sometimes, just sometimes, she felt certain she heard breathing that was not her own.

It comforted her.

It anchored her.

Ritual, after all, is an invitation.

Last Tuesday, Mrs. Alden knocked unexpectedly at seven o’clock.

Eleanor hesitated before answering.

The table was already set.

The candle lit.

“Are you doing alright, dear?” Mrs. Alden asked, peering gently past her shoulder. “I thought I saw—”

Her voice trailed off.

Because over Eleanor’s shoulder, the dining room light cast two shadows against the far wall.

Clear. Distinct.

One seated across from the other.

Mrs. Alden blinked.

There was only one woman at the door.

Eleanor followed her gaze but said nothing.

The neighbor swallowed. Smiled too brightly. “I won’t keep you.”

When the door closed, Eleanor returned to the table.

She adjusted Thomas’s glass — it had shifted closer to her side.

“It’s alright,” she murmured. “They don’t understand.”

She sat.

Folded her napkin.

Waited.

At six forty-seven, she lifted her fork.

Across from her, the chair pressed subtly into the floorboards, as if accepting its weight.

Some rituals feed memory.

Some feed longing.

And some, if repeated long enough, begin to answer back.