It’s a kind of pilgrimage for her.
They say the author’s soul still resides on that old leather chair, and blesses writers who dare to sit on it. The agent charges a whopping sum for taking people there, and allows no refunds.
A piece of eternity is on her palms, as she touches the worn out chair. Magic flows – she just knows it’s hers – very familiar, very comfortable and she sinks in the seat, never to rise again.
The agent is horrified.
Her frozen smile seems to mock him – “Are you offering a refund now? I won’t take it.”