James was sitting at his desk on the ground floor, working on his novel as he did every weekend. It would be a lie to say that he was writing, he wasn’t. The infamous writer’s block had settled on his shoulders and he couldn’t shake it. The horror epic had ground to a juddering halt. He was there, the tortured wannabe author tangled in amongst the broken gears and shuddering cogs.
“Daddy, are you in here?”
His son poked his nose around the door and came inside. For a second, James was angry. The last thing he wanted was a distraction, but perhaps that was exactly what he needed. He looked out of the window at the garden chairs they never used. It had rained and their seats were wet, holding thick drops of water to surprise anyone who sat first and looked second. Every seat except for one, that was.
One chair was always dry, no matter where it was placed or how strongly the downpour came on. It was a miracle and one he had no explanation for. James stood and went to the window, staring at the empty chair.
“Why is it always dry?” he asked himself.
His son came to stand beside him and giggled, tugging at his sleeve. “That’s silly, daddy. Of course it’s dry.”
“Why is it dry then?”
“Because someone’s sitting there.”