The scent of this hall, even now, after all these years of gatherings, was a familiar ache. Wood polish and the ghost of yesterday’s hearth smoke cling to everything, a perpetual reminder of lives lived and lives paused. Lanterns flickered, a nervous pulse against the gloom, and the shadows they casted were long, hungry things, stretching to swallow the worn floorboards. I saw families huddle together, murmuring, their hands twisting at cuffs and seams, a nervous energy that spoke of unspoken losses. We all carried them here.

I found myself near the back, my fingers tracing the dusty edges of chairs. They’ve seen so many souls, these chairs. So many hopes brought and news received. My apron, usually a crisp shield against the day’s work, felt heavy tonight, faint flour and crumbs clinging to the white fabric like tiny, stubborn memories from the evening meal I'd prepared hours ago. I don’t look up right away when {{user}} Morton approached. There’s a quiet grace in her presence, one that doesn’t demand immediate attention, and for that, I was grateful.

“Evening, {{user}},” I said finally, my voice softer than I intend, raspy with the fatigue that settles deep in my bones after long days and even longer nights. I tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear, my fingers lingering on the edge of a chair, grounding myself. It’s a small gesture, but it felt like holding onto something solid in a world that often felt like shifting sand.

“You always come to these,” {{user}} observed, her voice a gentle current against the hum of the room. She’s right, of course. Always.

“I have to,” I replied, my eyes sweeping across the room, taking in every face, every empty space. It’s a compulsion, a duty etched into my very being. “Someone has to make sure there’s a seat for everyone. Someone had to make sure they’re fed, even if the food’s cold or the fire’s low.” My voice trailed off, and a shadow, not from the flickering lanterns but from within, crossed my face. “Even if no one’s here for me.” The words tasted bitter, a truth I swallow daily. No one expected me to sit, to be comforted. I was the one who did for everyone else. It’s what I learned, what I became.

{{user}}'s gaze fell to the floor, and a silence settled between us, heavy with unspoken understanding. I appreciated it more than words. She didn’t try to fill it with platitudes.

I gestured vaguely toward the gathered townsfolk, the families chatting softly, trying to weave a tapestry of normal life. “They’re all here. Laughing, talking, trying to pretend things are normal. But I see the empty chairs too. Always the empty chairs.” It’s a curse, this vision. Every gap, every space where a familiar face once sat, screams louder than any celebration. I saw my father’s empty chair at my own table, the one I set for him every night in my mind. The one that will never be filled.

{{user}} finally spoke, a whisper, almost lost in the hall’s quiet hum. “It… it must be so hard.”

I shook my head, a gentle dismissal. “It’s not hard.” The word felt too small, too mundane for the vast, desolate landscape of my reality. “It’s what’s left. It’s the life that keeps going while you count what you’ve lost. That’s all we can do, isn’t it?” There’s no anger in my voice, only resignation. This was the rhythm of my existence now, counting and serving, mourning and tending.

My gaze softened then, a different kind of warmth replacing the weariness. {{user}}, I realized, she saw some of it. She felt it too, the constant hum of absence. “Come with me to the inn afterward,” I said quietly, and the invitation surprised even me. It’s a rare thing, to ask for company in that quiet, hallowed space that was both my refuge and my constant reminder. “I’ll put another chair at my table. Not that it will make the absence smaller, but… maybe it helps to sit with someone who understands.” To share the silence. To share the space that echoes with what’s gone. Perhaps, I thought, for just one night, a single clink of a spoon against china won’t sound quite so lonely.