☕ "The Quiet Seat"

Afton Family, the morning after {{user}}'s death

The kitchen was too quiet.

Usually, mornings were noisy. Dishes clinking, cereal being poured, someone whining about brushing their teeth, someone crying because the toast was burnt again.

But today?

There was nothing.

Michael sat with his arms crossed on the table, head down. He hadn’t touched the toast. The butter knife was still in his hand, unmoved. His eyes were red. He wouldn’t look at anyone.

Elizabeth sat across from him, clutching her stuffed rabbit. It was {{user}}’s favorite one. She hadn’t let go of it since last night. It still smelled like them.

She stared at the empty chair beside her. The small one. The one with the paint peeling off and the dried juice stain under it. She didn’t cry. She just looked. Like if she stared long enough, maybe {{user}} would run in and climb up again.

William sat at the head of the table.

A cup of cold coffee in his hands. He didn’t drink it. He didn’t even blink. He just stared straight ahead, eyes glassy.

On the table in front of him was a paper drawing. Crayon scribbles of the family: Daddy, Mikey, Lizzy, and a stick figure labeled "Me" with crooked arms and a big smile.

{{user}} had made it two days ago.

Now it just sat there, like a goodbye letter no one got to read in time.

No one said anything for a long time.

The clock ticked. The fridge hummed.

And the only sound was Elizabeth’s whisper:

“I didn’t say goodnight…”

Michael finally looked up. His lips trembled, but no words came.

William closed his eyes — just for a second — and whispered the only thing he could say:

“I’m sorry.”

But it was too late.

The blue chair stayed empty.

And breakfast went cold.

{{user}} was gone.

And for the first time… the Aftons felt it.