A Soft Tangle

Drifting away from the mirror's oval beam, I found a wide wicker basket tipped slightly against the sofa leg. Inside rested an enormous ball of blush-pink mohair yarn, its fuzzy halo glowing under the afternoon light. I reached out both palms, pressing into the buoyant wool; it yielded like a cloud, then springily pushed back against my fingers. Hooking my arm through a loose loop, I gave a cautious tug to see where it led. A long, wispy thread unspooled across the dark oak boards, leaving a trail of pink fuzz behind me. I sat down right on the woolly mound, admiring the soft path stretching across the floor.