At a family reunion in our old cabin, we took a selfie—ten of us smiling over breakfast. Later, cleaning up, I noticed eleven plates, one untouched but neatly set. Confused, I checked the selfie and saw a shadowy blur at the edge. That night, footsteps outside led me to find the extra plate reset with fresh food, though everyone was asleep. Ilona suggested it might be Grandpa, who built the cabin and insisted on family meals. We set an eleventh plate for him at dinner, and the fork shifted on its own, startling us. It became tradition: every meal, we set his plate. Sometimes the fork moved or bread was torn, feeling like his presence. An old photo showed
Grandpa with eleven plates, his rule that no one be forgotten. The extra plate united us, sparking more gatherings. A year later, we toasted Grandpa, his plate set, fork moving again. It wasn’t scary—it was love lingering, reminding us to honor family. We learned to make room at the table for those gone, keeping their legacy alive.
