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That village held an ancestral offering
only once a year.

Only after a good harvest.

The date was never chosen by calendar,
but by the granary.

When the first granary was full,
the offering table was brought out.

It was long,
covered with yellowed cloth.

There were always five dishes.

No more.
No less.

Five was the number
the ancestors recognized.

The first was new rice.
The second, cooked meat.
The third, soup.
The fourth, vegetables.
The fifth was an empty plate.

Nothing was placed on it.
But it had to be there.

The elders said
it was “for those who return
but do not sit.”

The young never asked who that meant.

One year,
the harvest was excessive.

Three granaries were filled,
with more still left.

A new bride had just arrived.
She was from another place.

On the day of the offering,
she looked at the empty plate
and whispered,

“If there’s this much,
why not add one more dish?”

No one answered.

She thought it was modesty.

When everyone turned away to fetch wine,
she placed a stew
on the table.

The sixth dish.

To her,
it made things complete.

When the ritual began,
no one noticed at first.

Until the wind stopped.

It was never a windy place,
but suddenly
the cloth pressed tightly to the table.

The candles did not flicker.
The smoke sank straight down.

An elder saw it first.

The sixth dish
was steaming.

Not like freshly cooked food.

Like something
had just breathed on it.

The ritual was not stopped.
No one dared move.

The elder whispered,

“If we remove it,
it means we are sending it away.”

That night,
the village was silent.

No dogs.
No insects.

At dawn,
the sixth dish was empty.

The bowl was clean.
No grease.
No residue.

The empty plate was still empty.

But one sack of rice
was missing from the granary.

No one claimed to have taken it.

On the third day,
one person was gone.

Not dead.
Not missing.

No one could remember
who they had been.

In the family records,
one line of ink
had bled and faded.

Only then did the elders speak
the rule that was never explained:

The offering table must never have more.

Five dishes invite ancestors.

The sixth
invites
what should never be remembered.