Chapter 3: The Seat He Never Took
No one could remember when the chair first appeared.
It sat near the wall of the waiting room, slightly apart from the others. Not broken. Not marked. Just… unused.
People didn't talk about it. They simply adjusted their behavior around it. Bags were placed on neighboring seats. Coats draped carelessly nearby. Conversations angled away from it without anyone noticing they'd done so.
When newcomers arrived, they almost always paused before choosing where to sit. Some glanced at the empty chair, hesitated, then picked another seat with a quiet sense of relief they couldn't explain.
Others sat in it.
Those ones never stayed long.
There were no rules posted. No signs. No warnings. Just a shared politeness that surfaced when needed.
"That one's usually left open," someone would say gently.
Or, "You might be more comfortable over here."
The tone was always kind. Embarrassed, even. As if correcting a small social mistake.
The person in the chair would laugh awkwardly, apologize, and move. And afterward, they'd avoid looking at it again.
They said the chair made them feel like they'd arrived too early for something. Or too late.
Sometimes, though, no one corrected them.
Those were the days people later struggled to describe.
Because on those days, there was also a man.
He never sat down.
He stood near the door, hands folded loosely, posture relaxed. He looked ordinary enough—clean clothes, quiet eyes, the sort of face you forgot as soon as you stopped looking at it.
He nodded when others entered. Smiled politely when spoken to. Never interrupted.
And he always left first.
"I'll step out," he'd say calmly.
"I just remembered something."
"I won't take up more time."
No urgency. No fear.
On one occasion, just before leaving, he paused. His hand rested on the door handle, his gaze drifting briefly toward the empty chair.
"Ah," he said softly, almost to himself, "someone's finally sitting where they're needed."
The door closed behind him, and the room continued as if nothing had changed.
Later—always later—someone would ask if anyone remembered his name.
No one ever did.
What people did remember came in fragments.
That the chair felt colder on certain days.
That the air grew heavier after the man left.
That when someone sat in the empty seat and wasn't corrected, the man lingered longer than usual, watching with a look that wasn't concern… but recognition.
One nurse swore she heard him speak once, softly, as he passed the chair.
"Not today," he'd said.
She couldn't say who he was talking to.
After the incident—no one agreed on what exactly happened—the chair was removed.
No announcement was made. No explanation given.
And yet, the space where it had been remained empty.
Chairs were rearranged. The room was renovated. Still, no one sat there.
As for the man, people stopped mentioning him altogether.
But sometimes, when the room felt too quiet, someone would glance toward the door.
And feel a strange sense of disappointment.
As if someone polite had left without saying goodbye.