First Step on Quilted Hills

The quiet air shifted. Beneath me, soft folds of heavy fabric settled. I tested my weight. First the left front paw, then the right. They yielded to the quilted stitches, yet supported me firmly. Ahead stood the white iron railing, silent and pale. I nudged a rise in the dark patchwork with my nose, feeling the textured seam. The room remained perfectly still. I paused, crouching low on the crest of the blanket, observing the shadowy corners.