The Empty Chair by the Window

The Chair by the Window

By [Uzair]

There was a chair by the window that nobody sat in anymore.

It used to be her chair. Every morning, just before the sun pulled itself up over the rooftops, she’d wrap herself in the knitted yellow shawl and sink into it like it remembered her shape. The shawl was still there, draped over the back like she’d be back any minute, though she’d been gone eleven months.

The window faced east. A narrow view of cracked sidewalks and crooked mailboxes, but she liked it because it got the light first. Said it gave the day a chance to show its face before she decided how to greet it.

“I can tell the whole weather from five seconds of morning light,” she used to say.

We used to laugh at her — me, my brother Caleb, and sometimes Dad — when she’d predict a surprise storm or that “someone was gonna come knocking today with good news.” Half the time, she was right. The other half, we all secretly hoped she was.

After she passed, nobody moved the chair. Or the shawl. Or the mug she’d left there, still holding the ghost of peppermint tea. We just started making a little curve around it when we vacuumed. The sun kept coming through the window like nothing had changed. The same golden spill on the same wooden floor, warming the same air.

And I hated it.

I hated how permanent she had become in absence — how that empty chair held her tighter than I ever could when she was alive.

One Sunday morning in June, I walked in barefoot, not thinking, and sat down in the chair.

It didn’t feel haunted. Just quiet.

The shawl scratched my shoulders the way it always had, the way I’d always said I didn’t like. But now I left it there, let it fall around me, and looked out the window like she used to.

The street was empty except for Mrs. Adami’s cat flicking its tail on the porch across the road. A delivery van slowed at the corner. A breeze nudged the curtain, soft and kind, like fingers brushing through your hair. I thought: This is nothing. And everything.

Then I noticed the light.

It was brighter than I remembered. Almost too bright. It sliced through the dust, lit up the mug on the table beside me, caught the lip of the glass like it had something urgent to say. And I knew she would’ve said, “Someone’s coming today. Someone with a reason to knock.”

I wanted to believe it.

Not because of superstition. Not because I thought she was watching. But because I missed the way she made ordinary mornings feel like omens.

Around ten, Caleb called. He was in the city, visiting Dad at the care home. Said Dad had asked about the chair, which surprised me — he’d barely spoken since February.

“He said,” Caleb hesitated, “‘Is it still there? The window one?’”

I felt something tighten in my chest. “Yeah. I was just sitting in it.”

A pause.

“Maybe bring it to him?” Caleb said. “If you want. He asked twice.”

I looked at the chair, touched the wood of the armrest like it was skin.

“Okay,” I said. “Yeah. I’ll bring it.”

It didn’t fit in my car without sticking out the back, so I tied it down and drove slow. It felt wrong and right at the same time — like moving a piece of sacred furniture, like carrying an urn. People stared at red lights. A kid pointed from his bike and said, “Cool chair.”

When I got to the care home, Caleb was waiting outside. He helped me unload it, and we wheeled it in like we were sneaking in something illegal.

Dad was sitting by the window of his room — west-facing, no light yet — looking tired and thinner than I remembered. But when he saw the chair, he smiled.

“I was worried it’d be gone,” he said, voice gravelly.

I placed it beside his bed.

“Can I sit in it?” he asked.

“You don’t need to ask.”

He sank into it slow. His hand found the armrest like it had a memory of it, his fingers brushing the groove Mom used to tap when she was thinking.

He closed his eyes, breathed in deep, then looked at me.

“You think she’d be mad?” he asked. “Me taking her spot?”

I shook my head. “I think she’d be glad someone was looking out the window again.”

He nodded, eyes watery.

“She used to say you could see the future in the light.”

And for a moment, in the silence, it felt like maybe you could.