Settling into the weave

I returned inside after the street grew dark. The living room was quiet. On the low footstool sat a thick, folded wool blanket. I climbed up the wooden leg and stepped onto the fabric. The weave yielded under my feet, sinking softly without any recoil. I did not resist. I unlocked my knees and let my limbs go loose, allowing gravity to fold me flat against the wool. The fibers compressed around my form, holding each joint in place. The surface held its warmth and remained completely motionless. I stayed there, resting.