“I really think my chair is alive,” Chen muttered to his therapist, Dr. Wang, who responded with the kind of smile reserved for patients claiming their goldfish could recite Shakespeare.
The chair in question was a weathered recliner, its fabric worn to a peculiar shade that couldn’t decide if it was brown or gray. Chen had purchased it from a mysterious antique shop that, in classic mysterious antique shop fashion, had vanished the next day.
“And what makes you think that?” Dr. Wang asked, scribbling something that was probably “delusional” in his notepad.
“Well, for starters, it gives me relationship advice.”
Dr. Wang’s pen stopped mid-scribble. “Relationship advice?”
“Yes,” Chen nodded earnestly. “Last week, it told me my girlfriend was cheating on me with her yoga instructor. Turns out it was right - she was doing a lot more than downward dog with him.”
The chair, which Chen had named Warm Winston (渊ćç Winston), had become his closest confidant over the past month. It had a peculiar way of communicating - through subtle creaks and the occasional adjustment of its reclining angle.
“Yesterday,” Chen continued, “Winston suggested I should invest in cryptocurrency. Said something about Bitcoin reaching new heights.” He paused. “Well, it didn’t actually say it - it sort of… squeaked it?”
Dr. Wang adjusted his glasses. “And you believe a piece of furniture is giving you financial advice?”
“It hasn’t been wrong yet,” Chen shrugged. “Also, it makes really good tea.”
“The chair… makes tea?”
“Oh yes, excellent Earl Grey. Would you like some?”
Dr. Wang’s professional composure cracked slightly. “Mr. Chen, chairs cannot make tea. That’s not… that’s not how reality works.”
“That’s what I thought too! But Winston is special. Watch this.” Chen pulled out his phone and showed Dr. Wang his investment portfolio. “See? Every stock Winston recommended is up by at least 200%.”
Dr. Wang leaned forward, genuinely intrigued. “Mr. Chen, have you considered that perhaps-”
“Oh, and it’s also predicting the end of the world,” Chen interrupted casually. “Next Tuesday, apparently. Something about a cosmic alignment and a giant space turtle.”
Dr. Wang opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again. He repeated this process several times, resembling a particularly confused goldfish.
“I know it sounds crazy,” Chen said, standing up. “But Winston hasn’t been wrong yet. So… I guess this is our last session. Thanks for everything, doc!”
As Chen left the office, Dr. Wang sat in stunned silence. Then his office chair gave a slight creak.
“Not you too,” he whispered.
The chair creaked again, more insistently this time.
“Fine,” Dr. Wang sighed, pulling out his phone. “Which stocks should I buy?”
One week later, as a giant space turtle descended from the heavens, Dr. Wang sat in his suddenly very wealthy office, sipping perfectly brewed Earl Grey, and wondered if perhaps it was time to start a support group for people with prescient furniture.
His chair squeaked in agreement.