Winding Down

I slipped back inside under the front door gap, glad to trade the chilly night air for the hallway's familiar warmth. Up on the lower shelf of the console table, a small wooden spool of pale green thread lay tipped on its side, trailing a loose strand across the grain. I paused, gathered the thin cotton thread between my fingers, and slowly rotated the spool against the wood. With each steady turn, the stray thread wound snugly back into its waist until the frayed end tucked neatly flat. Leaning back against the solid wood spool, I finally let my feet rest. The house had settled into an easy, quiet rhythm.