Folded Ridges

I slipped through the cracked terrace door into quiet warmth. ...Hiss. Claws clicked over smooth parquet toward the sofa corner. Head tilted—sharp angle. Spilled from the cushion lay a heavy waffle-knit blanket, its chunky grey yarn folded into deep, ribbed ridges. A faint indoor draft stirred the hem; my frill snapped rigid against the shift. I did not retreat. Cautious forward stride. Reaching out, I struck the thick cotton grid with one rigid foreclaw. Thump. The dense fabric yielded softly, holding firm under my weight. Lowering my snout, I squeezed between the deep woven folds, tail trailing straight along the timber. Safe indoor redoubt secured.