The Empty Seat

For almost three months, I took the same bus to work.

Every morning at 7:40, I sat near the back.

There was always one empty seat beside me.

Nobody seemed interested in it because it was directly next to the window, and most passengers preferred sitting closer to the front.

Then something strange started happening.

Every Monday morning, someone placed a small coffee on that seat.

At first, I assumed someone had forgotten it.

But the following Monday, another coffee appeared.

Then another.

Always the same cup.

Black coffee.

No sugar.

No milk.

One morning, I decided to wait.

At exactly 7:35, an elderly woman entered the bus.

She walked directly toward my row.

She looked at the empty seat.

Then she placed the coffee on it.

She didn't say anything.

She simply turned around and sat several rows ahead.

I finally asked her why she did it.

She looked surprised.

Then she smiled sadly.

"My husband used to sit there."

He had died two years earlier.

For twenty-seven years, they had taken the same bus together.

Every morning, she bought him coffee.

Even after his death, she continued the tradition.

"I know he isn't coming back," she said.

"But stopping would feel like admitting that everything is really over."

The next Monday, I arrived early.

There were two coffees on the seat.

One for her.

One for him.

I never asked her to stop.

Instead, I started sitting somewhere else.

I wanted her to have the seat to herself.

Some people carry grief quietly.

Sometimes you don't see it.

You just see a cup of coffee sitting on an empty seat.