The chair is blue, the father's favorite color.
Which is a fortuitous coincidence, considering how little the couple who donated it knew about him.
All the couple from Fishtown knew was that they were deeply affected by last month's column about John Snowden, the father who has stood bedside vigil for his son since he was Tased in the neck by Philadelphia police in 2011. Kahlif's been trapped in his body since.
They had connected to a father's unwavering dedication, but also to the memories his story unearthed.
For the husband, who works at the Navy Yard, memories of the long days and nights he sat by his own daughter as she fought cancer as an infant. She recovered.
For the wife, who works at the airport, of a childhood friend left to care for a younger brother after a car accident put him in a similar state to Kahlif's.
"I always wished I could have done more for her," she said.
The wife reached out and asked me the same thing I had asked the father the day I met him: Was there anything we could do? Anything he needed?
And I answered her the same way the father had answered me: Just prayer.
But that was as hard for her to take as it had been for me.
" I just want him to know others are thinking of them," she said.
I remembered the chair he was sitting in the day I spent with him. It was worn down by the many hours and days and years he had spent in it by his son's side.
Maybe a new chair, I guessed, then realized I would need to ask him first, as he is a proud man.
The father was grateful, but hesitant; he meant it when he said the only thing he needed was his son to come back to him. But he was gracious, too. Too kind to turn down a kindness.
I cautioned the couple that the chair shouldn't be too large; the room at Genesis Healthcare's Hopkins Center is small. I cautioned myself that sometimes good intentions are just that. It would be nice if he got a new chair, but he might not.
And then a couple of weekends ago, I got a message: The chair had been delivered. The couple had driven it over, carried it into the elevator and into the room. They said hello to Kahlif, who was being tended to by staff before his father came for his nightly visit.
By the time I got there, the old chair had been carried out into the hallway.
The new one fit perfectly. The couple, who ask not to be identified publicly, left a card.
As I waited for the father, I checked out the chair. I posted a picture of it on Twitter and couldn't help but smile when someone posted a perfect response.
"It's only an empty chair, but it's everything."
Like clockwork, the father arrived soon afterward, holding the dinner he would eat in the room with Kahlif, as he nearly always does.
"That is nice," he said, looking over the gift. "My favorite color, too." When he saw me with my camera, he got a little sheepish.
And then he asked me to start the camera again, so that he could send a message directly to the couple. This wasn't done for charity or recognition, the wife told me.
He read from the card: "We hope you find a little comfort in this recliner while you spend time with Kahlif."
He was touched, a little emotional. It meant a lot to know that someone cared about them in the world he keeps calling his son back to.
"Thank you," he said. "Me and Kahlif thank you from the bottom of our heart, and we will never forget this. …"
The father and the couple will meet one day, probably privately.
We sat together for a while, Kahlif, his father, and I. Sometimes in silence. Sometimes talking about his plans to take his 32-year-old son to the mountains, to keep praying that he returns to him.