The old guy at the yard sale kept telling me that the sofa “wasn’t normal,” but I figured he was just weird… until a person sneaked into my place saying the exact same mysterious words he did.
I was 26, standing in the center of a mostly vacant flat, questioning if being on my own was meant to be this isolating. The room carried a slight scent of new paint and dirt. Each noise bounced off the walls — my steps, the crinkling shopping bags, even my own breaths. I possessed a couple of folding seats, a bed pad on the ground, and a lopsided side table.
That made up my whole sitting area.
After handing over my damage deposit and the initial month’s lease, I hardly had sufficient cash remaining for food. Outfitting the place seemed out of the question.
Even so… it belonged to me.
That Saturday morning, I stood near the cooking area window grasping a cup of quick coffee while rain dripped down the pane. My closest friend Morgan was on speaker, hearing me gripe for the tenth occasion that week.
“Do you realize what your issue is?” she questioned.
I chuckled. “Other than having no money?”
“You’re acting dramatic.”
“I’m having noodles for my morning meal.”
“That honestly shows exactly what I mean.”
I chuckled softly, massaging my exhausted eyes.
Then Morgan stated, “Head out. Yard sales, secondhand shops… wealthy folks toss out perfectly fine couches all the time.”
I glanced around the flat once more. The quietness inside the room seemed more intense with each passing day.
“Alright,” I grumbled. “But if I end up dead from purchasing a spooky sofa, I’m holding you responsible.”
“Seems fair.”
Sixty minutes later, I was strolling through a community a couple of streets away with my sweater pulled snug to block the chilly breeze. The majority of the yard sales were letdowns — chipped plates, busted lights, worn-out garments heaped in bins.
Then I spotted the sofa.
It rested under a washed-out blue cover at the border of a driveway, looking like it was out of place. Deep green fabric, rounded timber feet, and old-fashioned sewing along the sides. It appeared classy, even pricey. And somehow, the price tag was merely 40 bucks.
I paused my steps.
“No way,” I muttered.
“That piece grabs people’s notice.”
The voice surprised me so much I almost leaped. An elderly guy sat close to the garage in a collapsible seat, observing me closely.
He appeared ancient. Sparse gray hair, pale complexion, a long brown jacket buttoned right up to his neck despite the sticky heat. But his stare bothered me the most.
Sharp. Watchful.
As if he already understood something about my life.
“Are you selling this?” I inquired.
“I sure am.”
“For just 40 bucks?”
“That is what the paper says.”
I moved around the sofa at a slow pace, pushing my palm against the soft material. The cloth was frayed in spots, but the structure seemed sturdy.
“This item seems pricey.”
The older guy grinned slightly.
“Sometimes precious items are ignored.”
Something regarding the manner he spoke caused my belly to clench.
I faked a chuckle. “Well… lucky for me, I suppose.”
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