The Rough Corner

The floor was cold. I walked slowly into the shadowed gap beside the bookshelf. Away from the lamp light. Safe and quiet. I reached out and pressed my claws against a thick wicker basket tucked in the corner. The weave was hard and dry. It did not yield. Good. I dragged my knuckles across the coarse fibers, feeling each ridge catch against my hand. Then I sat down heavily against the baseboard. The solid wood overhead blocked the brightness from the rest of the room. I let out a low, resonant rumble into the quiet dark. It is a steady place to wait out the night.