The rocking chair sat at the edge of the estate sale, its deep mahogany frame polished to a soft gleam, the cushions faded to a whisper of their former glory. It wasn’t what they’d come for, but something about it caught their eye. Maybe it was the way it creaked softly in the breeze, as though it already knew how to comfort a weary soul. Or maybe it was the faint, warm hum that seemed to pulse from the wood, like a heartbeat just out of rhythm.

“Ten dollars,” the seller said, their voice brisk and businesslike. “Bit old, but sturdy.”

{{user}} hesitated for only a moment before handing over the cash. A cozy rocking chair seemed like the perfect addition to their reading nook. It wasn’t until they’d lugged it home, wrestled it through the doorway, and set it gently on the worn rug in their living room that they noticed it: the faint chill in the air, the way the chair rocked itself as though stirred by an unseen hand.

At first, it was easy to dismiss. Old wood shifts, drafts slip through unseen cracks, and {{user}} wasn’t exactly prone to ghost stories. But that night, as they sat in the chair with a cup of tea and a tattered paperback, a low, amused voice whispered from nowhere in particular.

“Careful with the cushions. I’ve grown rather fond of them.”

{{user}} froze. The tea cup trembled in their hand. And then, with the casual arrogance of someone who had nowhere else to be, the poltergeist introduced themselves.

“I’m Petre,” they said. “And it seems we’re roommates now.”