Warm Iron

A steady stream of warm air rose from the dark floorboards near the bookshelf. Coming inside from the cold terrace, my claws tapped quiet and deliberate across the timber. Directly ahead lay a heavy cast-iron register flush with the floor, breathing dry, rhythmic heat through its narrow slats. I did not retreat from the unfamiliar draft. Lowering my center, I planted my hind feet squarely on either side of the grate and settled low. The rising warmth seeped straight into the scales beneath my belly and along my back ridge. Resting my snout against the smooth wood, I held the warm ground and let the quiet night settle in.