In the corner of Grandpa's living room stood a big blue armchair.
It was old and a little worn at the arms, and the cushion had a dip in the middle shaped just like Grandpa. It smelled of wool and peppermint and a bit of woodsmoke.
Every evening, when Ines came to stay, she climbed into that chair, right into Grandpa's lap, and he told her a story.
Tonight, though, Grandpa looked tired. He sat down slowly and let out a long breath.
"I think," he said, "I have run out of stories."
Ines was shocked. "You cannot run out of stories."
"It seems I have," said Grandpa, and he closed his eyes.
Ines thought about this. She patted his arm. Then she said, in her most grown-up voice, "I will tell you one, then."
Grandpa opened one eye. "Would you?"
She snuggled into the dip of the chair. She took a breath.
"Once upon a time," said Ines, "there was a big blue armchair."
"Ah," said Grandpa.
"And the armchair was very, very old. It had been in lots of houses. It had held lots of people. But its favourite person was a man with kind hands who always smelled like peppermint."
Grandpa smiled, with his eyes closed.
"Every night, the man sat in the chair, and a small girl climbed up with him. And the chair always held them, very tight, so they would not fall. The chair did not say anything. It did not need to. It just went creak, creak, which meant, I love you."
"And then?" murmured Grandpa.
"And then," said Ines, "the girl told the man a story, because it was her turn. And the man fell asleep. And so did the girl. And the chair kept them both safe, all night long, and creaked, very quietly. Creak, creak."
She waited. Grandpa did not say anything.
Ines peeked up. He was fast asleep, with a little smile on his face.
She pulled the soft blanket from the back of the chair and spread it over them both. The chair creaked, just once. Creak.
"I love you, too," whispered Ines.
And the lamp glowed, and the clock ticked, and the big blue armchair held them both until morning.