The Flannel Fold

Beside the wax tin lay a thick flannel cloth, folded into tiered terraces of yellow cotton. I nudged my square plinth against the lower crease to test its give. The brushed fabric yielded slightly, muffling each shift in weight without a sound. Bracing the lower limb of my bow against the second fold, I hoisted my footing upward. The weave is dense and clean, free of grit. From the topmost terrace, I drew the wooden stave across the soft nap to sweep away the dust gathered along the hall. A quiet, cushioned bivouac.