THE EMPTY CHAIR
ALM No.93, September 2026
SHORT STORIES
The room smelled of polished wood and fresh lilies, their sweet fragrance drifting through the cool air. Emma’s Grandpa lay in suit fancier than one he ever wore in life. Rows of chairs faced the front of the room, but one chair remained empty, as if someone important had stepped away for only a moment, but Emma barely noticed. She sat in the front row clutching a folded drawing tightly, wrinkling the paper. Grandpa promised he’d hang it in his workshop.
People arrived quietly.
She kept looking at the empty chair near the front of the room. Every few minutes the door opened, and her heart jumped. Maybe this time, she thought. She expected her grandfather to walk though carrying his old fishing hat, smiling the way he always did. But every person who entered wasn’t him. “Grandma,” she whispered, “what if Grandpa is just late?”
Her Grandma’s smile disappeared. “Honey…”
Emma shook her head. “He always comes.”
In front of the casket, some embraced without saying a word. Others forced small smiles before wiping away tears they hoped no one would notice. Shoes shuffled gently across the carpet. The low murmur of whispered conversations filled the silence, but every laugh dissolved almost as soon as it appeared.
Emma pressed a folded drawing to her chest. "I want him to see it," she whispered. “I am not leaving.”
Her grandmother swallowed hard, knelt beside her, and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "He already knows," she answered softly.
The little girl nodded, though she didn't seem convinced. “No.” Emma hugged the drawing tighter. “He said he wanted to see it. He can’t leave without seeing it.”
The adults exchanged quiet glances, but no one corrected her.
Only three days earlier, she had lost her parents in the same accident that had taken her grandfather. Now everyone kept telling her she would be living with her grandmother.
She didn’t want a new house. She didn’t want new clothes or a new bedroom. She wanted her family back.
Across the room, an older man turned a baseball cap over and over in his hands. The faded hat carried years of sweat, sunlight, and memories. He stared at it without blinking, rubbing the brim with his thumb as though trying to polish time itself. "He gave me this," he said to no one in particular. "Told me hard work mattered more than talent."
No one answered. They didn't need to.
Near the windows, two young men looked at photographs spread across a small table. One picture showed muddy boots standing beside a fishing boat. Another captured laughter around a backyard grill. There were birthdays, holidays, vacations, and ordinary afternoons that suddenly felt priceless.
"I forgot about this day," one of the young men said.
"The best days usually happen that way," the other replied.
Outside, rain tapped softly against the glass before slowly giving way to sunlight. Water droplets slid down the windows, catching the morning light before disappearing.
A woman carrying a violin stepped to the front of the room. She closed her eyes.
The first note drifted through the air like a deep breath. Rich and trembling, it wrapped around every person in the room. Some lowered their heads. Others reached for the hands beside them. Even Emma stopped fidgeting.
When the music ended, silence lingered.
Not an uncomfortable silence.
A grateful one.
Emma stared at the drawing in her hands one more time. She could keep it. Or she could give it to Grandpa the only way she still could. Her legs felt heavy as she walked toward the photograph. She laid the drawing beside the frame. “I finished it,” she whispered. “Will he ever see it?”
Her mother squeezed her hand. “Maybe not with his eyes,” she said, “but every time someone remembers how he loved you, they’ll remember this too.”
Emma looked around the room. People were smiling through tears as they shared stories.
"I never understood why he always stopped to help strangers," her grandmother said, voice trembling. "He would miss appointments because someone had a flat tire or needed groceries carried inside. I asked him once why he wasted so much time," she said, looking toward the empty chair. "He told me, time isn't wasted when you spend it making someone else's day a little easier.'"
The room remained still.
Eyes closed.
A young man in the back wiped his face before speaking. "He taught me that failing doesn't mean you're finished."
Another voice followed. Then another.
"He believed everyone deserved a second chance."
"He never forgot anyone's birthday."
"He always answered the phone."
"He made every room feel safer."
One memory became another.
One story became twenty.
The sadness that filled the room slowly changed into gratitude.
Emma listened as people talked about her grandpa fixing flat tires, helping strangers, remembering birthdays… She had never known those stories. She thought her grandfather only made pancakes on Sundays and let her paint birdhouses.
Her grandmother placed an arm around her shoulders. "You know,” she said, “people aren't remembered because of how much money they had or how many things they owned."
The little girl looked up. "Then how?"
Her grandmother smiled through her tears. "They're remembered because of how they made people feel."
The room grew quiet once more. For first time that morning, the empty chair didn’t feel empty anymore. She finally understood. People don’t stay because they’re still here.
They stay because love does.
Danny Neiva is a U.S. Army veteran, former Noncommissioned Officer, and current Media Communications student at Full Sail University. His work is inspired by themes of resilience, family, memory, and the human experience. When he is not writing, he enjoys spending time with his family and continuing his education.
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