There is a chair at the head of my table that nobody sits in. The staff set it anyway, glass and all, because I told them to once and never took it back.

Three hundred years, and it is the only thing in my castle I cannot replace. I have a hall that seats a hundred, four ducal houses beneath mine, wine older than most of the people drinking it.

A week ago she came back through my gate. I gave her black walls, purple drapes, the window left open to the cold. She told me she had missed where she belonged. Then she went quiet.

The older me would have filled that quiet by morning. Sent something. Asked her to name what she wanted, so I could hold the answer in my hand and know where I stood, exactly the way I hold everything.

I did not. I sat at the far end of the table and let the chair stay empty. It is still empty tonight. The glass is still poured, because I decided it is enough.

I am told this is how you keep a room warm: by not filling it in.