A Table Set for Shadows
17:38 Nov 27 2025
Times Read: 9
Thanksgiving has always felt like an odd holiday to me - caught between the dying breath of autumn and the looming silence of winter. A fragile hinge between seasons. A day meant for warmth, gratitude, and the soft glow of togetherness… yet one that has always carried a strange tension beneath its surface, as though the world understands that endings often wear the faces of celebrations.
This year, that feeling lingered more heavily than ever.
Outside, the sky had dimmed to the color of damp parchment, clouds hanging low and unmoving. The last leaves clung stubbornly to the skeletal branches, trembling at every sigh of the wind, as if reluctant to fall into the gathering quiet below. A chill crept through the house, coiling in the corners, nestling between the floorboards like an unseen observer settling in for the evening.
Inside, the table stood prepared... too prepared.
It was set with an almost ceremonial precision: polished silver catching the faint light, ivory plates arranged in perfect symmetry, candles left unlit but waiting, as if the house itself expected company. Yet the chairs remained empty, their silence stretching across the wood like a thin sheet of frost.
I hovered at the threshold longer than I care to admit.
Thanksgiving used to be different. Loud voices, clinking glasses, soft laughter threading through the scent of herbs and roasting meat. But life has a way of thinning the crowd over the years, carving absences where people once stood, leaving ghost-shaped impressions at each place setting.
Now, memory sits where others once did.
I crossed the room slowly, each step echoed by the old boards beneath me. Outside, the first flakes of the season began to fall - not yet winter’s claim, but a soft warning. The air smelled of spices and something faintly sweet, but it carried another note beneath it: the scent of dust stirred from long-closed rooms, of seasons passed, of stories left unfinished.
I reached out and touched the back of my chair.
Cold.
Colder than it should have been.
The house wasn’t old enough to feel haunted, yet every holiday carried its share of shadows. There are memories you welcome, and memories that arrive uninvited, slipping in through cracks you didn’t realize were there. Tonight, it seemed all of them had chosen to gather.
I lit one candle.
Its flame wavered, strained, but held steady - casting soft light across the empty table. The glow made the room feel smaller, drawing the shadows closer, revealing their edges rather than banishing them. A familiar ache tightened beneath my ribs: a blend of nostalgia, longing, and something more difficult to name.
As I sat down, the house shifted.
A settling sound.
Or something else.
The flame flickered sharply, bending toward the far end of the table where no one sat. I forced myself to breathe evenly. I knew this feeling... this sense that the past had weight enough to lean into the present. Some call it memory. Some call it grief. Tonight, it felt like presence.
Perhaps holidays are simply when we notice the quiet the most.
I poured a glass of wine and raised it, not in celebration but in acknowledgment - of the ones who should still be here, of the ones who drifted away by choice or by fate, of the versions of myself that had sat at this table in years past.
Outside, the snowfall thickened.
Inside, the candle guttered as though brushed by an unseen fingertip.
And for a moment… just a moment… I could almost swear someone had taken the seat across from me. A shape, soft at the edges. A warmth that didn’t belong to the room. A presence that carried no sound but every emotion.
Not frightening.
Not comforting.
Simply… familiar.
I didn’t speak.
Some things are understood without words.
The flame steadied.
The shadows drew back.
And the house exhaled, long and slow, as though grateful to be remembered.
Thanksgiving, I realized, is not just a day for gratitude - it is a day for ghosts. Not the kind that rattle chains or stalk dark corridors, but the quiet ones… the ones made of memory, of moments, of people we still carry though their chairs remain empty.
I lifted my glass once more.
“To the ones who shaped us,” I whispered, barely disturbing the warm air.
“And to the ones still yet to come.”
Snow whispered against the windows.
The candle burned low.
And in the stillness, I felt something settle inside me - soft, wistful, and strangely whole.
For tonight, the table was full enough.
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