Every Sunday, Ellen set a chair at the kitchen table for her mother. Her mother had passed three years ago, but the chair stayed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIsn\u2019t it time to move on?\u201d friends would ask.
But Ellen would just smile. \u201cShe still visits.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They didn\u2019t understand. They didn\u2019t hear the creak of the floorboards when Ellen whispered her prayers. Or smell her mother\u2019s favourite lavender tea when no one else was in the room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
One night, when Ellen felt overwhelmed with grief, she sat in that chair and wept. \u201cAre you really there?\u201d she whispered. \u201cIs this all in my head?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A gentle wind stirred the curtains\u2014no windows open.
A warmth touched her back\u2014no one else near.
And in her heart, she heard it:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cChild, I never left. You\u2019ve just forgotten how to listen.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
From that day on, Ellen stopped needing proof.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She knew.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Some chairs may look empty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But Spirit always finds a seat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n