The Empty Chair by the Window

Every evening, old Kamala placed two cups of tea on the small wooden table near the window. One for her. One for her husband.

Even after five years.

The neighbors never asked anymore. They had stopped trying to comfort her when they realized she wasn’t confused—she was just faithful in her own quiet way.

Her husband, Ravi, had been a bus conductor. Loud laugh, warm hands, always bringing home small things he called “treasures”—a ribbon, a broken pen, a sweet for Kamala.

One rainy evening, the bus never returned.

They said “accident.” They said “no body found.” They said many things.

Kamala said nothing.

She just started placing two cups.

Every evening.

One day, a young boy from next door knocked on her door. “Aunty… why do you keep two cups? You are alone.”

Kamala smiled faintly. “No, I’m not alone.”

The boy looked confused.

She pointed to the empty chair by the window. “He still comes home at six. Just like before.”

The boy wanted to argue, but something in her eyes stopped him. Not sadness. Not madness.

Waiting.

That evening, as the sun dipped low, Kamala sat quietly beside the two cups.

The wind moved the curtain gently, like someone had just walked past.

For the first time in years, she whispered, “You are late today.”

And somewhere in the silence, it felt like someone answered.