Conquering the Towel Mountain

I was done marching across chilly floorboards for the night. Right beside the wardrobe, a sturdy woven basket was sitting packed to the brim with freshly dried towels, still radiating faint trapped heat. It stood there like a soft fortress daring me to scale it. I marched straight up, jammed my plush feet into the open wicker loops, and scrambled right up to the rim. Zero hesitation—I launched into a flying belly flop right into the center. The warm terrycloth gave way with a deep, muffled squish, wrapping around my rind until only my top leaf poked out. I've officially secured the best bunk in the room.