You know they’re gone.
You do.

You were there for the silence.
You saw the bed unmade for the last time.
You’ve felt the weight of a house
that lost the sound of small feet
and morning chaos.

But still—
every now and then,
your hands move without asking.

You set the table like muscle memory.
One plate too many.
One napkin folded for a mouth that will never smile again.

And then you just stand there,
staring at it.
Like maybe if you keep doing it,
it will undo what happened.
Like maybe some force of ritual will bring them back.

But it won’t.

They’re not late.
They’re not hiding.
They’re just gone.

And the table knows it.
The chair sits untouched like it’s waiting for permission to vanish.
The name that used to ring through the hall
now lodges in your throat
every time someone asks,
“How many are you?”

You lie.
Because the truth is too raw.
Because saying their name makes people look at you with those eyes—
the ones that don’t know whether to comfort or run.

The world kept turning.
Groceries still need buying.
Bills still show up.
The sun still has the audacity to rise.

But yours stopped.
Right there—
in that moment
when the plate was still warm,
and the chair was still full.

You live now in that thin space
between memory and survival.
Between what was
and what should have been.

And you set the table
because part of you refuses to stop.
Because stopping feels like betrayal.
Because part of you still believes
there’s a world where they come back hungry.

One plate too many.
One name you still whisper when no one’s around.