A Soft Sleeve

I slipped back inside just as the hallway filled with the dim amber glow of evening. On the lower shelf of the side table, an old knitted wool mitten lay folded over, soft and faded cream. I crawled close and eased both my paws into the open cuff. The inside was fuzzy, brushed with warmth and smelling faintly of dried lavender and winter coat pockets. Resting my chin on the ribbed edge, I sat very still, wondering whose small hands used to keep warm inside it, and whether they had let it go on purpose or simply lost it along the way.