He sat at the empty dinner table, a single plate set for two people. He cooked his wife’s favorite meal: roast chicken with rosemary and lemon. The scent filled the quiet house.
He pulled out the chair across from him, just like he had for fifty years. He ate in silence, talking to the empty seat, describing his day.
A neighbor brought over a casserole dish later. "We missed you at the service," they said gently. "It’s been a week."
He realized he hadn't cooked a meal for himself; he had cooked a memory, a final, necessary ritual to say goodbye. He finally packed up the second plate.
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