The Weight of Empty Chairs

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Story Title: “The Weight of Empty Chairs”

In the heart of Amman, tucked between an old bookshop and a spice market, stood a forgotten café named Zayna’s. It had no flashy signs, no Instagram page—just the scent of freshly ground cardamom and the soft murmur of people who preferred silence over noise.

Zayna, the café’s owner, was a widow in her early sixties. She wore the same beige scarf every day and moved slowly but with purpose, as though she measured life in teaspoons of sugar.

One particular winter, a new face began to show up every Sunday. A teenage boy named Samir. He never ordered anything but a small black coffee—no sugar, no milk, just bitterness. He always sat at the same table in the back, staring at the empty chair across from him.

Zayna watched him from behind the counter for weeks.

One day, as she refilled the glass water jug at his table, she asked gently,

“Is someone joining you?”

He looked down and shook his head.

“My father used to sit there. We’d come every Sunday… until he didn’t.”

She didn’t ask more. Instead, she brought him a slice of date cake—on the house—and walked away.

The next Sunday, Samir came again. This time, he placed a photograph on the empty chair. It showed him and his father laughing over coffee, younger and carefree.

Zayna walked over and poured two cups.

He looked up, surprised.

“You didn’t have to…”

She smiled, placing the cup in front of the photo.

“Some people deserve to be remembered with warmth… not just absence.”

From that day on, it became a quiet ritual.

Two cups, one photograph, and an unspoken promise that some chairs may be empty, but never forgotten.

Years later, long after Samir had grown and moved away, Zayna’s café closed its doors.

But the table in the back?

It stayed intact, with two old cups still resting side by side.