ENTRY 024: A CHAIR BY ANY OTHER NAME

Dear Diary,

There are two kinds of customers: those who make me question why I open the shop in the morning and those who question whether life is worth living. Today, I was lucky enough to meet a customer who fit both types.

He was a middle-aged human man with a floppy hat and a chair he was deeply attached to.

“It’s not just a chair,” he began, showing me the wobbly, creaky thing. “This chair belonged to my great-grandfather, a hero who saved an entire village from a troll invasion. After every battle, he sat on this chair, drinking his mead and sharing tales of his bravery.”

I nodded politely. "Mmm-hmm."

"He once defeated three trolls at once, you know,” the man continued, his eyes misting. “And when he returned, the villagers crafted this chair from the finest oak in the forest. It’s been in our family ever since. Generations of courage and honor are imbued in this wood."

"Mmm-hmm," I repeated, inspecting the chair. The “finest oak” was riddled with scratches, and one of the legs had been patched with what looked like goblin glue.

The man wasn’t finished. "My father sat in this chair every evening, regaling us with the stories passed down from his father. It’s not just a chair, it’s a piece of history."

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"Mmm-hmm."

"A symbol of perseverance, of legacy, of—"

"How much do you want for it?" I cut in, desperate to stop the monologue before I started weeping out of secondhand exhaustion.

He straightened up, clearing his throat. "Ah, well, for an item of such cultural and sentimental value… I think seventy-five gold is fair."

I blinked five times in quick succession. "Seventy-five gold? For this chair?"

His eyes narrowed. "You’d insult my family’s honor by offering less?"

"It’s… a chair," I said, carefully choosing my words. "It’s wobbly. Not quite a looker, either. And the glue on the leg is—"

"GOBLIN GLUE!" he barked, his voice rising to a level that made my enchanted broom dart behind a shelf. "Do you know how hard it is to get authentic goblin glue these days? That alone is worth fifty gold!"

I sighed and placed a single gold coin on the counter. "One gold. That’s my offer." (That was 100 times more than this chair was worth, but even my patience has its limits.)

The man’s face turned beet red, and he snatched the chair back like I’d just insulted his ancestors. "One gold?! Do you have no respect for history? For heroism? This chair—"

He stopped mid-rant, staring at the counter behind me. Specifically, at the Chair of Absolute Comfort I had recently acquired and priced at ten gold. Cushioned, sturdy, and enchanted to mold itself to any sitter, it was leagues ahead of his wobbly heirloom.

"How much for that chair?" he asked, his tone suddenly eager.

"Ten gold," I said flatly.

The man hesitated for a moment, then placed his family chair on the counter. "Tell you what. I’ll trade you my priceless heirloom chair and nine gold for that one."

Honestly, considering how much yapping I had to endure, that was a bargain.

So I now have a chair I’ll never sell and ten minutes of my life I’ll never get back. On the bright side, the Chair of Absolute Comfort is finally out of the shop. Something tells me the man is about to pawn it as his "family heirloom" at the next shop.

Yours in profit,

Garren