Every evening at six, Mrs. Elara Dovewell set the table for two.
Her old cottage overlooked the sea, where waves sang lullabies to the shore and the wind carried whispers of memories. Inside, time moved slowly—kept company by ticking clocks, creaking wood, and the scent of tea and salt.
The second chair at her table had been empty for ten years. It had belonged to her husband, Thomas, a fisherman with silver hair and a laugh that made the floorboards dance. They had shared forty-two years of love: quiet, steady, and full of small, beautiful things—folded notes in coat pockets, shared morning walks, and stories told under wool blankets.
One stormy night, Thomas never came home. The sea swallowed his boat, and though they searched, not even driftwood returned. Elara waited for weeks, then months. Everyone said to let go, but she couldn't. He had promised to come back, and Thomas never broke a promise.
So, each evening, she made two cups of tea. She spoke softly, as if he still listened. Some nights she wept, others she smiled, remembering how he once danced with her in the rain.
As years wore on, the village forgot, but Elara didn't. The sea had taken her love, but not her hope.
One winter, she passed quietly in her sleep, a smile on her lips and a worn photograph in her hands. When they found her, the second chair was pulled out, and two cups of tea sat on the table—still warm.
The villagers say they sometimes see an old couple walking hand in hand along the cliffs, or hear laughter in the wind, just before dusk. The chair is still there, at Elara's cottage, never empty again.