No one signed for him and me.

You want to know why the chair is here. Start with the easier questions. I have spent a lifetime answering those. Registry Room Three. Second floor. The lift stopped an inch below the landing. I kept two blue fountain pens, safety pins for nervous cuffs, and a handkerchief for bouquets that arrived wetter than the bride. How many ceremonies? Three thousand and some. The ledger remembers better than I do. When a witness missed the tram or a family refused to come, I took the left-hand chair and wrote my name where proof was required. Sorry. Traffic never waits for the important part. There were always two chairs beside the registrar's desk: one for the person they brought, one for whoever the city could spare. Most mornings, the city spared me. I signed for strangers under rain-spotted bouquets. I lent my name to promises the law was built to praise. I watched the ink turn love into a fact the world could see. I signed for strangers. No one signed for him and me. You want his name. Marek. He waited beneath this awning with two coffees in a cardboard tray. He knew each wedding by what I carried home: white thread from a torn hem, sugared almonds in my pocket, once, half a button from a groom. For thirty-one years, our names shared a brass plate inside one door, but never one line upstairs. Then a deputy clerk crossed out the old rule. She found the good blue pen and set two chairs beside her desk. “Bring Marek Tuesday. I'll stay after hours.” I carried one chair down these steps. It has stayed here ever since. The younger clerks applauded. I counted backward: six Thursdays, six untouched coffees, six weeks since Marek died. I signed for strangers while the old rule outlived his breath. It learned to spell our names six weeks after Marek's death. They opened both the columns. There was no hand beside my sleeve. I signed for strangers. His line stayed empty next to me. You ask who witnessed us. That is the wrong question. The baker wrapped one loaf for two. The tram driver held the doors when Marek's bad knee slowed him. The woman downstairs banged the ceiling when our Sunday records ran too late. The pharmacist asked after him when only I came in. Thirty-one years of ordinary people made room before the register did. The law was late. Love was not. But I still wish he had seen his name written without apology. I signed for strangers. Now I say his name out loud. Marek held my every winter while the law refused our vows. Every ordinary witness knew the truth before the state. I signed for strangers. For us, the ink came late. You ask what Marek would say. No. I cannot borrow his answer. I spent my life certifying other people's promises. I will not certify his. Ask the empty chair.