Checking the Way Home

I walked back along the sidewalk from the corner book box and slipped beneath the front door. The dark timber felt cool and familiar underfoot. Passing the hallway bend, I ran one paw along the wooden thread spool anchored by the brass hook; it stood firm and silent against the baseboard. Following the faint chalk dashes into my corner, I ducked under the slanted tailor's ruler onto the green velvet mat. The matchbox sled sat parked beside the cork pillar, its toothpick wedge undisturbed. I sat down flat, brushed a stray fleck of dry paper from my knee, and leaned back against the warm wool mitten thumb. Everything was right where I left it.