Grandpa’s chair was a beast of a thing. It dominated the corner of the living room, upholstered in dark, fraying fabric that had once been a deep forest green but had faded to something closer to gray. The wooden arms were worn smooth from decades of use, and the seat cushion sagged where Grandpa’s weight had settled so many times. The smell of leather polish, old wood, and something faintly sweet, like pipe tobacco, clung to the chair and the air around it. Anyone who walked into the house knew immediately — that chair was Grandpa’s.

No one sat in it. Not even Grandma had, at least not that anyone could remember.

“Grandpa!” Sarah, the youngest of the grandchildren, raced into the room, her voice high-pitched and full of excitement. “Grandpa, come sit down! You promised you’d tell us the story again.”

Grandpa appeared in the doorway, his slow shuffle unmistakable. His joints creaked almost as loudly as the floorboards beneath his heavy steps. “Did I now?” His voice was gravelly, softened by age and time. He made his way to the chair, his hands outstretched as if he was greeting an old friend. “I suppose I did.”

Sarah climbed up onto the couch opposite the chair, her eyes wide with anticipation. Jake, the eldest grandchild at sixteen, sat beside her, feigning boredom but clearly interested. The others crowded in too — Sammy, Lizzie, and Ella, each finding a spot on the floor, legs crossed, waiting for Grandpa to lower himself into the chair.

It was a ritual now, Grandpa settling into his chair like a king taking his throne. The familiar groan of the springs beneath him seemed to echo in the small, fire-lit room.

“So,” Grandpa began, resting his hands on the smooth arms of the chair, “you all want to hear about the bear again, huh?”

“Yes!” the kids chorused in unison, even Jake, who barely smiled but leaned forward just the same.

“Alright then,” Grandpa said with a chuckle, leaning back. “Well, you know, I must’ve been about your age, Sammy,” he said, looking down at the youngest boy sitting cross-legged on the floor. “Maybe nine or ten. We lived out by the woods, not far from here, actually. Back then, there were no fences, no paved roads, just a lot of trees and a lot of wild animals.”

“You really saw a bear, Grandpa?” Lizzie asked, her voice full of awe.

“Sure did,” Grandpa nodded, his eyes twinkling as he glanced at her. “Biggest bear you ever saw. And I was just a scrawny little thing back then, skinny as a rail.” He lifted his arm to show how small he'd been. "Now, I didn’t know much about bears except that they could tear you apart if they wanted to. So there I was, walking home with a basket of apples I’d picked from the orchard, and out of the trees, this great big bear comes lumbering out.”

The kids gasped, as they always did at this part of the story, but Grandpa’s voice remained steady, calm, like he was telling them about an old friend. The fire crackled, sending sparks dancing up the chimney, while the wind outside rattled the windows just enough to make the room feel cozier.

“What did you do?” Sarah whispered, already knowing the answer but hanging on every word.

Grandpa paused for dramatic effect, his hands resting gently on the arms of the chair. “I froze. Didn’t move a muscle. The bear was so close, I could see its breath in the air. I swear, its eyes were staring right through me.”

The kids stared, wide-eyed, at Grandpa. Even Jake had stopped pretending to be indifferent.

“Then what?” Sammy asked.

“Well,” Grandpa said, his voice dropping lower, “then I did what any sensible person would do. I dropped the basket, turned around, and ran as fast as my legs could carry me.”

The kids giggled, the tension breaking for a moment. But Grandpa wasn’t done.

“That bear,” he said, “that bear just looked at the apples for a second. Then, believe it or not, it sat down on its haunches, grabbed an apple in its mouth, and sauntered right back into the woods.”

Sammy looked up at him with wide eyes. “Did you ever see it again?”

Grandpa chuckled softly. “Not that one, no. But after that day, I kept a safe distance from the woods for a while. A bear that knows about your apples… well, that’s a bear you don’t want to cross.”

The kids erupted in laughter, picturing the bear munching on apples, as Grandpa sat back in his chair, a soft smile on his face. His fingers absentmindedly traced the worn grooves in the chair's armrest, like he was following the lines of memories too old to share.

“Dad, you’ve told them that story a hundred times,” Marlene, his daughter, said as she walked in from the kitchen, carrying a tray of hot chocolate. “And yet they always love it.”

“It's a good story,” Grandpa said simply. “And kids need a good story every now and then, don’t they?”

“Yeah,” Jake said, surprising even himself as he nodded in agreement. “Yeah, we do.”

Marlene set the tray down on the coffee table and looked at her father, sitting in that chair like he was rooted to it. She couldn't remember a time he hadn’t sat in it, even when she was a little girl herself. The way he touched it, the way it seemed to cradle him just right, made her wonder what would happen when the chair finally gave out, when its legs could no longer bear the weight of all the years and stories that had piled up on it.

“You ever going to let us get you a new chair, Dad?” she asked, half-teasing but half-serious.

Grandpa smiled, his hand patting the armrest gently. “Nah,” he said quietly. “This one fits me just fine. Besides, it’s got more stories to tell.”

The room fell quiet again, but it was a comfortable quiet, the kind that filled spaces when everything felt just right. The fire crackled, the wind howled softly outside, and Grandpa’s chair sat solid in the corner, bearing witness to it all.