Gregory had always been a chair. His mother was a fine wooden recliner, and his father a stately leather armchair. But Gregory was different. He had arms and legs and an unfortunate tendency to move.
“Chairs do not walk,” his father grumbled, watching Gregory fidget at dinner.
“Have you tried just… staying still?” his mother asked gently.
Gregory did try. But school was unbearable—students would sit on him, and teachers scolded him for shifting mid-lecture.
One day, during lunch, he spotted Penelope, a lamp who blinked wildly in the sunlight.
“You’re not plugged in,” Gregory said.
“And you’re not sitting,” she replied.
They sat—or rather, Gregory sat next to her—for hours, swapping stories of misunderstood furniture.
“I’m not a chair,” Gregory finally admitted.
“And I’m not a lamp,” Penelope grinned.
They left school together, seeking a place where no one cared if you glowed or walked.
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