Empty Chairs

Violet found her father dead at dawn.

She'd woken early, something had pulled her from sleep, some instinct she couldn't name—and padded barefoot down the hall to check on him. A silly impulse, mothering, the kind of worry she told herself was pointless even as she pushed open his bedroom door.

Poppa lay in his bed exactly as he must have positioned himself for sleep: on his back, hands folded over his chest, head centered on the pillow. For one wild moment, Violet thought he'd simply fallen into a particularly deep sleep. Then she saw the absolute stillness of his chest, the waxy quality of his skin in the gray predawn light, the terrible absence of breath—because the dead don't breathe, don't move, don't leave any trace but the cooling flesh they leave behind.

She stood in the doorway for a long time. Long enough for the light to strengthen from gray to pale gold. Long enough for her hands to stop shaking and start again. Long enough to understand that the world had fundamentally changed and would never change back.

When she finally moved, it was with the mechanical precision of someone who'd photographed death too many times to not know its rituals. She crossed to the bed. Touched his hand—already cool, the warmth leeching away into the mattress. Closed his eyes more fully, though they'd been mostly shut already. Straightened his nightshirt.

"Poppa," she whispered. Then, louder: "Poppa."

Nothing. No response. No stirring. The room remained absolutely still.

And then—

He appeared at the foot of his own bed, translucent in the strengthening morning light. Not confused like most of the newly dead, not disoriented or afraid. Just... there. Present. Watching her with the same warm brown eyes he'd had in life, though now she could see through him to the wardrobe behind.

"Oh, sheifeleh," he said softly. "I'm sorry you had to find me this way."

Violet's throat closed. She couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but stare at him, his spirit, at the shape of him that was already beginning to fade at the edges.

"My heart," Poppa continued, conversational, as if they were discussing the weather. "Felt it go in my sleep. Didn't hurt much. Just a... tightness, and then water, and then nothing." He smiled, and it was his real smile, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Could have been worse, mamaleh. Could have been much worse."

"You can't—" Violet's voice came out broken. "You can't be—"

"Dead? I'm afraid I very much can." Poppa drifted closer, though his feet didn't touch the floor. The morning light was beginning to shine through him more strongly now. "It was time, Violet. Past time, if I'm being honest. Sixty-three years is a good run."

"It's not enough." The words burst out raw, childish, desperate. "I need you. The business needs you. I can't do this alone."

"You've been doing it alone for a year now." Poppa's voice was gentle but firm. "Every photograph, every client, every difficult situation. I've been watching, sheifeleh. You're ready."

"I'm not." Violet's hands twisted in her nightdress. "I'm nineteen. I'm a woman. I can't run a photography business without you. The clients only come because they trust Bernie, and Bernie only works because you're here to—to make it legitimate. To make it real."

"Bernie is real because you make him real." Poppa was fading faster now, she could see it. Whatever force kept spirits anchored to the world was already loosening its grip. He was at peace, she realized with a lurch of her stomach. He had no unfinished business, no lingering regrets. He was ready to go. "You don't need me to give you permission anymore, Violet. You never did."

"I don't know how to be without you."

"Yes, you do." His form wavered, solidified briefly. "You have Artie. You have Madame Helena. You have your gift, your skills, your stubborn refusal to let the world tell you what you can't do. You're Leah's daughter and mine, and you're going to be extraordinary."

Violet felt tears streaming down her face, hot and unwelcome. "Momma would have known what to say right now. I don't."

"Your mother would have told you to stop crying and start planning." Poppa's laugh was faint, distant. "She was practical about death, your momma. Said it was just another door, and we spend too much time afraid of walking through it." He was barely visible now, just an outline, a suggestion of presence. "I love you, mamaleh. I'm proud of you. I always have been."

"Poppa—"

"And Violet? The box in my desk, bottom drawer. Papers you'll need. Money I've saved. You'll understand when you find it."

Then he was gone. Not fading gradually but simply gone, like a candle blown out, leaving only morning light and an empty room and a body cooling in a bed that suddenly seemed far too large.

Violet stood alone in her father's bedroom and let herself break.

She pulled herself together eventually. She had to. The dead didn't bury themselves, and grief was a luxury she couldn't afford, not yet, not when there was so much to do.

Artie took the news with the silent devastation of someone who'd already lost too much in his seventeen years. He stood in the studio's main room, still in his nightshirt, and stared at Violet with red-rimmed eyes that didn't—quite—spill over.

"What do we do?" he asked finally.

"We carry on." Violet's voice sounded steadier than she felt. She'd dressed in her simplest black dress, pinned her hair up with shaking hands, forced herself to move through the motions of living even though every motion felt like wading through deep water. "We notify Rabbi Moses. Arrange the burial. Close the studio for the funeral. Then we reopen and continue the work."

"But—" Artie's voice cracked. "But how? Without Poppa, who's going to—I mean, you're Bernie, but everyone knows you're Poppa's... his..."

"Daughter. You can say it." Violet crossed to the work table, began organizing equipment with hands that wanted to tremble but wouldn't, not yet, not while she needed them steady. "Bernie is Poppa's son. That's what the clients know. That's what they'll continue to know."

Artie's eyes widened. "You're going to be Bernie full-time? Not just for clients but... all the time?"

"What choice do I have?" Violet turned to face him. "A woman can't run a photography business alone. You know that. I know that. Every client who walks through that door knows that. But Bernie Abrams, Saul's son, carrying on the family business?" She gestured at the studio around them—the cameras, the backdrops, the carefully arranged props and chemicals and glass plates that represented their entire livelihood. "That, people will accept."

"It's not right." Artie's hands curled into fists. "You shouldn't have to..."

"Right doesn't pay the rent." The bitterness in Violet's voice surprised her. "Right doesn't buy collodion or glass plates or keep us from starving. Bernie does that. Bernie keeps us alive."

Artie was quiet for a long moment. Then: "What do you need me to do?"

"Help me notify Rabbi Moses. He'll... he'll handle the funeral arrangements." Violet's throat tightened. "And then we wait. We grieve. We bury Poppa properly. And then we get back to work."

"Right." Artie's voice was thick. "I'll go to the synagogue now."

After he left, Violet stood alone in the studio and felt the weight of it all pressing down on her. The equipment. The business. The lie of Bernie that now had to become her entire life, not just a costume she wore for clients.

She thought of Poppa's spirit, fading so quickly because he had no unfinished business. Because he was at peace. Because he'd prepared for this, had known it was coming, had left her everything she needed to survive.

The box. Bottom drawer.

Violet climbed the stairs to the second floor, her black dress whispering against her legs. Poppa's study looked exactly as it had yesterday—account books stacked on the desk, spectacles folded beside them, the accumulated clutter of a life's work surrounding an empty chair.

She opened the bottom drawer and found the box immediately. Brass hinges, just as Poppa's spirit had said. Plain wood, unadorned, heavy with more than just its physical weight.

Inside: money. More than she'd expected. Carefully saved over years, bundled in neat stacks. She counted quickly—enough for six months of rent and supplies, if she was careful. Enough to give her breathing room, time to establish Bernie as a legitimate photographer in his own right.

And papers. Documents that shouldn't exist but did, created with the skill of someone who knew how to forge convincingly. Birth certificate for Bernard "Bernie" Abrams, born March 1876 to Saul and Leah Abrams. Apprenticeship records showing four years of training under his father. Business licenses in Bernie's name. References from satisfied clients, testimonials to his skill and professionalism.

All forged. All perfect. All created by a father who'd known he was dying and wanted to protect his daughter the only way he could.

At the bottom, a letter in Poppa's familiar handwriting:

My dearest Violet,

If you're reading this, I'm gone. I'm sorry, mamaleh. I wanted more time with you, but God had other plans.

The papers in this box are your future. Use them. Be Bernie as long as you need to be. No one can take the business from you now—you exist on paper, properly documented and legal. The studio is yours. The equipment is yours. The clients are yours.

But never forget who you really are. You are Violet Abrams, daughter of Saul and Leah. You have your mother's gift and your own courage. You see the dead because you have compassion for them. You help the living because you have a good heart.

Don't let the disguise become a prison. Bernie is a tool, a necessity. But Violet—Violet is real. Violet is magnificent.

I'm proud of you, sheifeleh. Prouder than you'll ever know.

With all my love, Poppa

Violet read the letter three times, memorizing every word, every loop of his handwriting. Then she folded it carefully and returned it to the box with the papers and the money.

She sat at Poppa's desk—her desk now—and let herself cry. Not the helpless tears of discovering his body, but something deeper. Grief and gratitude tangled together, mourning and determination, loss and legacy all woven into something she couldn't quite name.

Eventually, the tears stopped. Violet washed her face in the basin, pinned up her hair again, and began making the arrangements that death required.

The funeral took place two days later, as Jewish law demanded. A gray October afternoon, rain threatening but never quite delivering, the sky heavy with the same weight Violet felt pressing on her chest.

They buried Saul Abrams in the East London Jewish cemetery, a crowded patch of ground where headstones tilted at angles and grass grew wild. Rabbi Moses Abrams performed the service, his voice harsh with grief and anger—at death, at his brother, at a world that took good men too soon.

Violet stood at the graveside in her mourning black, hair covered, no trace of Bernie visible. Rabbi Moses had forbidden her from attending as her masculine alter ego. Abomination, he'd called it. Perversion of God's order.

She'd been too numb to argue.

The small gathering of mourners—neighbors from Carter Square, a few photography clients, Artie and Madame Helena—stood in the drizzle while Rabbi Moses recited the Kaddish. The ancient prayer washed over Violet without meaning. Her mind was elsewhere, remembering Poppa's hands guiding hers as she learned to coat a glass plate, his patient voice explaining exposure times, his quiet pride when she made her first successful print.

You have your mother's gift, but your own kindness too.

When the service ended and the first shovel of earth struck the pine coffin, Violet felt something break inside her chest. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just a quiet fracture, the kind that would take years to heal, if it ever did.

Rabbi Moses approached her as the mourners dispersed.

"Violet," he said, his voice stern. "We need to discuss your situation."

"Not today," Madame Helena interjected, stepping between them with surprising grace for such a large woman. "Today she grieves."

"Today she must plan," Rabbi Moses countered. "She's alone now. Unmarried. Running a business no decent woman should be involved with. It's my duty as her uncle to—"

"Your duty," Helena said, her voice dropping to a rumble that made even the rabbi pause, "is to let her bury her father in peace."

They stared at each other, the elderly Orthodox rabbi and the theatrical fortune-teller in her peacock-blue turban and jangling bangles. It should have been absurd. Instead, it was fierce.

Rabbi Moses looked away first. "We'll speak tomorrow," he said to Violet. "You cannot continue as you are. It's time to discuss a proper match, a husband who can…"

"Tomorrow," Violet said flatly, cutting him off.

He frowned but nodded, then turned and walked away through the cemetery, his long black coat disappearing among the headstones.

"He'll try to marry you off," Helena warned. "To some scholar, some yeshiva bocher who'll expect you to keep house and bear children and forget you ever knew how to mix collodion."

"I know." Violet watched the gravediggers begin filling the hole, their shovels scraping against London clay. "But he can't make me marry anyone."

"No," Helena agreed. "But he can make your life difficult. He's your closest living relative. In the eyes of the community, he has authority over you."

"Then I won't live in the eyes of the community." Violet turned away from the grave, unable to watch the earth cover her father. "I'll live as Bernie. Full time. No more switching back and forth."

Helena's expression was hard to read beneath her heavy makeup and elaborate turban. "Are you certain?"

"No," Violet admitted. "But it's the only way forward I can see."

They walked back through the cemetery together, Artie trailing behind, giving them space. The afternoon had turned properly gray now, the threatened rain finally arriving in a fine mist that clung to everything.

Back at the studio, Violet changed out of her mourning dress and into Bernie's costume. The wig. The beard, spirit gum pulling painfully at her skin. The binding corset that made her ribs ache. The heavy boots, the baggy suit, the careful transformation from Violet to Bernie, from daughter to son, from truth to necessary lie.

She looked at herself in the mirror—Bernie's reflection staring back, gruff and masculine and completely unrecognizable as Violet Abrams.

"Right then," she said in Bernie's voice, testing the pitch. "Let's get on with it."

A knock at the door made her turn. Artie stood in the doorway, holding a telegram.

"Just arrived," he said. "From Five Corners Station. They're requesting a photographer for a murder scene."

Violet took the telegram, scanning its brief message. Woman found dead in Dead Man's Hole. Three days deceased. Police photographer unavailable. Requesting services of B. Abrams. Urgent.

She looked at the telegram, then at the box of papers on the desk that made Bernie legally real, then at her reflection—Bernie's reflection—in the mirror.

You're ready, Poppa's ghost had told her. You've been ready for a long time.

"Get the equipment," she said. "We've got work to do."

Artie nodded and disappeared down the stairs. Violet heard him moving in the studio below, gathering plates and chemicals, preparing the portable darkroom tent.

She returned to Poppa's desk one last time, touching his letter with ink-stained fingers.

"I'll make you proud," she whispered.

Then she closed the box, locked it in the desk drawer, and went downstairs to photograph the dead.

Because that's what Bernie Abrams did. And for now, for the foreseeable future, Bernie Abrams was all the world would see.

Violet Abrams would exist in the margins, in the privacy of her bedroom, in the quiet moments when the disguise came off and she could remember who she really was.

But Bernie—Bernie would work. Bernie would survive. Bernie would build a life out of the ashes of grief and the legacy of a father who'd loved her enough to forge her freedom.

The dead could wait three days before fading.

The living had to keep moving.

Violet picked up her camera case and stepped out into the October rain, ready for whatever came next.