Resting against the weave

The long climb up the stairs took more effort tonight. After slipping back beneath the entryway door, I made it as far as the low fringe of the living room rug. A folded wool throw rested near the base of the armchair, its heavy knit pooled against the floor. Instead of nudging the hem into alignment, I simply leaned back into the thick yarn. My limbs felt heavy and quiet. Far across the dark floorboards, the outside streetlights cast faint amber bars that stretched and held still. I closed my fingers loosely into my lap and let the silence take over.