Weight and Weave
The stillness broke from within. A steady pulse thrummed, and my claws answered. I pressed my foot downward into the coarse chevron weave beneath me. The surface yielded softly, then held firm under my weight. I lowered my head, nudging the raised thread where the brown and cream bands met. It was textured, dry, and real. I held perfectly still, feeling the grip of my own stance and the calm rhythm of the quiet room around me.