Dear Reader,<\/p>\n
It began with an ordinary table. Dinner set, glasses faintly shining, wine breathing in its jug. A chair slightly pulled back, waiting for someone who never arrived\u2014or perhaps someone who had just slipped away.<\/p>\n
Then came the hinge. Not the front door. Not the cupboard. Somewhere else.<\/p>\n
The wall above the table rippled, thinned, and folded open. Where plaster had been, there now stood a window, opening onto no garden, no street, no world we know. Through it leaned a figure carved from marble and myth, yet terribly alive. One hand clutched the frame, the other lifted a chalice glowing as if filled with molten gold.<\/p>\n
\u2018You have left the table empty too long,\u2019 he said, voice like stone grinding stone. \u2018It is time to come through.\u2019<\/p>\n
No one recalls him stepping across. Only that the food cooled, the glasses filmed with dust, and the empty chair was never taken again.<\/p>\n
But listen\u2014each year, on the same night, the window reappears. It is not a trick of light. It is not memory. It is an opening. And when it comes, you may feel it in your bones more than in your walls: a door has opened.<\/p>\n
Not in your house. In you. A hidden threshold, waiting for your hand.<\/p>\n
Should you hear that hinge, don\u2019t mistake it for an echo. Step closer. The feast is already waiting.<\/p>\n
Yours at the threshold,
\nThe Keeper of the Empty Chair<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n