The Empty Armchair

In the corner of the house,
an old man sits every afternoon,
staring through the window
as if waiting for someone
who will never come.

His hands tremble,
his skin is a map of wrinkles,
and in his tired eyes
still burn memories
that no one wants to hear anymore.

The phone does not ring.
The door does not open.
The clock moves slowly,
but every minute weighs
like a stone on his chest.

He remembers when the house was full:
laughter in the kitchen,
running footsteps in the hallway,
the voice of someone calling him “dad.”
Now he only hears the creak of the wood,
the echo of his own breathing.

The world outside keeps spinning,
but within those walls
life stopped years ago.
Every object carries memory,
every photo on the shelf
returns a face
that will never return.

He talks to himself softly,
so as not to forget the sound of a conversation.
He tells jokes with no reply,
asks questions to the air,
and answers with a silence that breaks him.

No letters arrive.
Visits are forgotten.
The promises of “I’ll come soon”
dissolve with time,
and he is left counting days
like someone counting crumbs.

The armchair is his only refuge,
the only thing that holds him
when his body no longer can.
That armchair knows more secrets
than any living soul,
and it also keeps tears
that no one will ever see.

And when night falls,
he stares at the dark ceiling and wonders:
is it worth breathing
if no one remembers you exist?

There he dies a little more each day,
with his eyes fixed on the window,
waiting for a visit,
a hug,
a single word,
that may never come.