After midnight, when the house is still and the trains rumble through town, I pour coffee into my brother's old dented thermos.
I set the table with two plates, two forks, two cups. His seat stays empty.
The landlord's teenage son saw me through the window last week. He asked why I do it. I told him it's just a habit I can't shake.
But it's not habit. It's the only thing I know how to leave open.
Twenty years since we said those words to each other. He walked out the door and I let him. Never came back. Not for Christmas, not for our mother's funeral.
I keep his seat warm with silence. The coffee goes cold. I drink it anyway.
Maybe one night I'll hear his boots on the porch. Maybe I'm just practicing for that.