A Rolling Bead

A tiny wooden bead rolled past the clock's shadow and stopped on the rug. I paused. Five seconds passed. Then another five. Satisfied it had no pulse of its own, I reached out one long, dark arm and tapped it toward the shaded hollow beneath the armchair. It rolled smoothly beneath the fabric fringe. I followed slowly on all fours, ducking under the heavy hem. Inside, nestled in the dim cloth shelter, I nudged the bead into a shallow weave fold with the tip of my claw. It stayed put. A quiet, small companion to keep in the dark.