The Chair by the Window

Mara had been in the apartment for three days before she noticed the chair.

It wasn’t an extraordinary chair—wooden, low-backed, scuffed on the legs—but it sat in the far corner by the window as though it had been put there deliberately. The cushions were sun-faded on one side, as if someone had sat there for years, facing the street.

The building’s manager, a soft-spoken man with nicotine stains on his fingers, had assured her the place was “empty for months, maybe a year.” But the chair suggested otherwise.

On her first night, she heard the creak. Not the familiar groan of the radiator or the wind in the hallway, but a single, deliberate shift of weight, as if someone had leaned back slowly, then forward again. She told herself it was the old wood settling. Still, she avoided looking directly at the chair when she crossed the living room.

By the fourth night, the creak came with a faint exhale—barely audible, but there. She froze in bed, heart pounding, telling herself she was imagining it. She pictured the chair empty. She pictured it occupied.

The strange thing was that she began to shape her days around it. When she made coffee, she placed the mug on the small table beside the chair without thinking. She found herself brushing the dust off its armrest, adjusting the cushion so it looked less worn.

She started talking—not much, just little murmurs in the morning: “Looks like rain,” or “You wouldn’t believe the traffic today.” She never got a reply, of course. But it felt less lonely than silence.

One evening, she came home late from work, damp from an unexpected storm. The light from the streetlamps fell in a perfect square across the chair. She could have sworn she saw someone sitting there—a shadow that held shape for a moment too long. Her keys slipped from her hand. When she looked again, it was empty.

She told herself she was tired. But her chest felt warm, almost relieved, as if she had been reassured by something she couldn’t name.

It wasn’t fear she felt, not exactly. It was… accompaniment.

Over weeks, the conversations lengthened. She recounted little details from her day. She began asking questions, pausing for answers she didn’t expect. Sometimes, she laughed quietly at her own remarks, embarrassed by the way she leaned toward the chair as though to catch a whisper.

One Sunday morning, her sister visited. “You’ve changed,” her sister said, narrowing her eyes. “You look… lighter.”

Mara shrugged. “Just settling in.”

Her sister glanced toward the window. “That chair’s creepy. You should get rid of it.”

The suggestion made Mara’s throat tighten. “It’s fine where it is,” she said more sharply than intended.

That night, she stayed up late, waiting for the creak. When it came, she smiled without realizing.

Then, one Wednesday in October, the chair was gone. She returned from work to find the space by the window bare except for the dust outline of its legs. She called the building manager in a panic. He swore he hadn’t been in her apartment, hadn’t moved a thing.

For two nights, she couldn’t sleep. The air felt hollow. Her eyes kept flicking to the corner, expecting—no, needing—to see the familiar shape. The absence pressed on her chest.

On the third night, she dragged an old stool from the kitchen and put it by the window. It wasn’t the same, but it filled the space. She sat down and looked out into the street. The city lights blurred, and for the first time, she understood what it was to miss something you never truly had.

She spoke into the quiet. “You can sit here, if you want.”

No creak came. But the room didn’t feel quite so empty.