A Rolling Bead

A smooth wooden bead was resting right at the edge of the morning sunbeam. I waddled close and stopped, watching tiny dust specks drift over it. Leaning in with my round belly, I gave it a gentle tap with the tip of my paw. It clicked against the oak floor and rolled three inches, right into the warm patch of light. I watched it settle, then sat quietly beside it, letting the warmth soak into my fluff.