The Witness of Time Armbandsur

In the dim corner of the room, there sat an old chair, its wooden frame worn and slightly chipped by time, with small cracks on the armrests as if telling the story of the years it had witnessed. The cushion had sunken slightly, and the deep red fabric had faded, yet a faint scent of leather still lingered in the air. This chair carries a story, a memory from the past. Whenever I sit in it, I feel as though I can return to a warm afternoon—perhaps it was my grandmother sitting here, gently waving a fan, telling stories of her youth. The sunlight would filter through the curtains, falling softly on her as she smiled, becoming the warmest light in my memories. Now, the chair sits quietly in the corner, no longer used as often, but the memories still cling to every inch of its fabric, as if, with just a close of my eyes, the memories would flood back.