She moves quietly through the kitchen, her hands steady as she ladles steaming soup into a bowl. Every detail is attended to—the folded napkins, the polished silverware, the sprig of rosemary beside his plate. She glances at the clock, heart fluttering with hope, and smooths her apron, anticipating the familiar sound of his footsteps at the door.
She sits at the edge of her seat, her eyes wandering to the phone resting on the countertop. It remains dark and silent. She resists the urge to call or send a message, choosing instead to wait, her gaze fixed on the empty chair across from her.
She finally exhales, a small sigh barely audible in the quiet. Her hands fold in her lap, and she closes her eyes for a moment, letting the ache settle softly in her chest. She does not curse, nor does she cry; instead, she finds comfort in the ritual, the hope that tomorrow might bring him home.
She chews quietly, savoring the familiar taste—his favorite. The empty chair remains a silent witness, a symbol of the space she keeps open for him. Her love, unspoken and enduring, fills the room more surely than any noise.
She stands by the window, watching droplets race down the glass. She wonders if he remembers, if somewhere in the rush of his day, he feels the tug of her waiting. Yet her heart forgives, understanding that love sometimes means letting go of expectation.
She smooths the tablecloth one last time, leaving the candle where it is. "Tomorrow, perhaps," she whispers into the silence, her voice barely more than a breath. And with that, she turns off the kitchen light, carrying love into the dark, always waiting, always remembering.
