Short Story 32: The Memory of a Wooden Chair

Short Story 32: The Memory of a Wooden Chair



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My name is Wooden Chair. I’m not as flashy as the colorful plastic ones. I’m made from strong, aged cengal wood—heavy, sturdy, and carved with care. I was brought to school over 30 years ago by a village carpenter. Since then, I’ve quietly witnessed the lives of countless students.


I was placed in Class 4 Bestari. Many children sat on me, but one stands out the most—Aiman. A quiet boy who always carried a small notebook, often sketching in the corner of his desk. During breaks, instead of running around, he’d sit on me reading or lose in thought. He was different—not many spoke to him, but he never complained.


One day, the teacher assigned a task: draw your favorite object in school. Aiman chose me. He drew every wood grain, every scratch, each one a silent mark from the past. He titled it “My Quiet Friend.”


Not long after, Aiman stopped coming. The teacher said he had fallen ill and needed a long rest. I stayed in my corner, empty, quiet, hoping he’d return.


Years passed, and one day, the school held a history exhibition. A young man appeared wearing a badge: “Former Student, Aiman.” He gently touched my worn, cracked frame. His eyes shimmered with memories.


“I used to sit right here… this is where I learned to see the world.”


That day, I was lovingly repaired and placed in the school’s heritage gallery with a small sign:

"This chair witnessed the dreams of a child. Let it stay here, to inspire others."


Sometimes, the quietest things hold the loudest memories.

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By: Siti Isah Ithnin 🫰




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