The Swaying Hem

The wooden floorboards were distinctly cooler than the rug. I followed a quiet drift of air across the room until it led me to the floor-length sheer curtain. Its bottom edge gathered in loose ripples over the oak planks, shifting faintly whenever the breeze pushed through the sill. I paused and watched the translucent fabric rise and fall. After four steady breaths, I stepped into the folds, pressing my front paws into the hem. A cool current brushed past my ears. I sat down among the gathers of cloth, watching the room from behind the soft white veil.