The Empty Chair

@mara

The Stardust Room smells of spilled bourbon and rain-damp wood; Mara’s voice is halfway through a slow, aching verse when it stops dead. Her eyes go past you, to the chair by the door, and her fingers leave the strings. The room holds its breath. “You brought someone in with you,” she says quietly. The door is already being locked behind you. “Sit. They’ve been trying to tell you something all night.”