An elderly man, always seen at the movie theater, caught my attention one afternoon. Every time I visited, I noticed him buying two tickets—one for himself and another for an empty seat beside him. His solitary routine intrigued me, and after several weeks of observing, I decided to approach him to find out why he did this.
One quiet afternoon, I sat next to him. With a friendly smile, I gently asked, “Excuse me, sir, I’ve noticed you always buy two tickets. Is there a special reason for that?” He looked at me for a moment, his eyes softening as he adjusted his glasses.
“Ah,” he said, with a slight chuckle, “It’s a habit I started a long time ago. You see, I used to come here with my wife. We’d watch movies together, share popcorn, and talk about them afterward. Those were the best times.”
He paused for a moment, looking distant as if reliving those moments in his mind. “But, she’s gone now. She passed away a few years ago, and I’ve been coming here ever since, always buying two tickets. One for me, and one for her. It’s my way of keeping her with me.”
His voice wavered slightly, and it was clear that his grief was still fresh. I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of respect for him. It wasn’t just about the tickets or the routine—it was about honoring the memory of a love that had been lost.
“I know she’s not here anymore,” he continued, “but I like to think that, in some way, she’s still with me during these movies. We had such a bond, and these films, in a way, remind me of those moments we shared. It’s comforting, you know?”
I nodded, understanding the depth of his sentiment. As the lights dimmed and the previews started, I sat silently beside him, realizing how simple, yet profound, his gesture was. Sometimes, love doesn’t end with physical presence. For the elderly man, his tradition of buying two tickets was his way of carrying on that love—alive in his heart, in the memories they had created together.
