The Woven Cord

I walked in from the garden bench as the night cooled down. Near the edge of the hearth rug, a thick braided cotton pull-cord lay coiled like a sleeping caterpillar. I stood quietly at the edge of the shadow for a while, listening to the grandfather clock measure out its steady beats across the hall. Then I took two careful steps closer and reached out with both hands. The cord was dense and slightly stiff. With a gentle push of my palms, I rolled its frayed knot half an inch into the soft fringe of the rug. It sank into the wool with a muffled, satisfying crunch.