His mother always laid one more than there were people. Bowl, chopsticks, spoon, at the place on the east side that nobody used.
He asked once as a child. She said there used to be more of them in the house and her hands had never got out of the habit.
After she died he cooked for himself, and laid two. Habit.
One day he washed up and counted the cupboard. Eight bowls. There were seven.
He looked in the sink, the cupboard, the bin. Nothing.
The next day there were six.
By the middle of the year the cupboard was empty. There were always two settings on the table, washed, stacked. He had not washed them.
He tried laying only one and locking the other away in the cupboard. In the morning there were two on the table.
He tried laying none. In the morning there were two, and the bowl at the east place had broth dried in the bottom of it and the chopsticks were resting across the rim.
He went and opened the cupboard. It was locked and the key was in his pocket.
The setting he had locked away was inside, clean, untouched.