I have been here longer than the dust in the corners, longer than the scent of old pages that cling to the air like whispers of forgotten voices. I do not speak, but I have listened. I do not move, but I have known the weight of souls who carry more than just their bodies.
Once, I was new—polished wood, soft cushions, a place of comfort. Now, my fabric is worn, my legs creak with every shift, yet I remain where I have always been: tucked into the quietest corner of the bookstore, where light filters through the high windows in golden ribbons.
I have held the dreamers, their heads tilted back as they escape into far-off lands. I have embraced the lonely, the ones who sit for hours, turning pages slowly, as if reluctant to return to the world beyond the door. I have endured restless children, their small hands tracing the fabric of my arms as they listen to stories read aloud by voices warm with love.
I have felt tears soak into my seams, silent grief spilling between the pages of a book clutched too tightly. I have felt laughter vibrate through me, a bubbling joy shared between friends who stumble upon a story too funny to keep to themselves.
Seasons change. The books on the shelves are replaced, sold, borrowed. New faces appear, old ones fade, but I remain. I watch. I remember.
One day, I know, the bookstore may close. The dust may settle for the last time. I may be taken away, forgotten, left to be nothing more than a piece of furniture in a world too busy to sit and read.
But for now, I am here. A silent witness. A keeper of moments. A chair that remembers.
ns 15.158.61.11da2
