The Empty Chair at Sunrise

Every morning at sunrise, the neighborhood park came alive with familiar faces — joggers, old men sipping tea, children getting ready for school. But for Ali, there was only one face that mattered: his grandfather, sitting on the same wooden bench near the jasmine tree.

Dada’s routine never changed. He woke before dawn, prayed Fajr, wrapped his shawl around his shoulders, and walked slowly to the park, humming old poetry under his breath. His presence was like a steady heartbeat in Ali’s life.

Ali worked night shifts at a hospital. Every morning, after finishing duty, he would join his grandfather at the park, sit beside him, and listen to his gentle wisdom.

“Beta,” Dada always said, “life is short. But if you spend it loving people, it becomes enough.”

Ali always smiled, thinking there was still plenty of time — years, maybe decades — to hear these lessons.

But time is a strange thing. It disappears even while we are watching it.

One morning, after a long and exhausting night at work, Ali rushed to the park as usual. The sun was rising, painting the sky with soft orange light. The birds were singing. Everything looked the same.

Except the bench.

It was empty.

At first, Ali thought he was early. He sat down, waiting. Five minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. His grandfather never missed a morning, not in the last twelve years.

A strange uneasiness crept into Ali’s heart.

He pulled out his phone and called home. His younger sister answered, her voice trembling.

“Bhai… Dada isn’t well. He collapsed a little while ago.”

The world around Ali faded. He ran out of the park, heart pounding, breath shaking. When he reached home, the house was in chaos. Relatives. Neighbors. Whispering voices. And in the middle of it all, his grandfather lay on the bed, covered with a white sheet.

Silent. Still. Gone.

Ali froze. His throat tightened. His legs felt weak.

“But… but I saw him last night. He was fine,” he whispered.

His mother placed a hand on his shoulder. “He woke up before Fajr like always… but he was breathing heavily. We called an ambulance, but…”

Her voice broke.

Ali removed the sheet gently. Dada’s face was peaceful, exactly as he looked every morning at the park. Calm. Soft. As if he had fallen into a deep sleep.

But the warmth was gone. The life was gone.

Ali sat beside him, tears falling silently. “Dada, I just needed one more morning. One more talk. Just one…”

His grandfather had always said death comes quietly, without making noise. And now Ali understood.

The funeral was simple, just the way Dada wanted. People spoke about his kindness, his patience, his gentle nature. Ali listened, but his heart felt empty — like the bench in the park.

The next morning, despite the grief, Ali went to the park. He stood beside the bench, looking at the empty seat. The sun rose slowly, but its warmth couldn’t touch the coldness inside him.

A part of him wished he had stayed awake that night. Wished he had noticed some sign. Wished he had said more. Loved more. Sat longer. But regrets always come after the door has already closed.

As he stood there, a young boy approached him — someone who used to greet his grandfather every morning.

“Where is the old man today?” the boy asked innocently.

Ali smiled sadly. “He won’t be coming anymore.”

The boy looked confused, then quietly placed a jasmine flower on the bench and walked away.

Ali sat down and closed his eyes. He remembered every sunrise they shared, every story, every piece of advice. He realized that even though Dada was gone, his lessons were still with him.

And so, Ali made a promise that morning — a promise to live exactly the way his grandfather taught him: with kindness, patience, and love.

Because death may take people away without warning…

but their goodness remains, like sunlight lingering long after dawn.