The Hearth Stone

I pushed past the porch door seam and crossed the dim floorboards into the quiet living room. Before the dark fireplace rose a raised hearth of thick, rough slate. Near the soot-blackened brickwork lay a heavy gray river stone, smooth-sided and chilled from the draft. I planted one claw upon its flank; it held its ground without rolling. Bracing my tail squarely along the mortar seam, I leaned my shoulder into the chimney's stone pillar. A deep, measuring rasp vibrated from my chest into the hollow flue above. The draft answered with a quiet, hollow hum. I set my footing and claimed the watch.