Dense Weave

The bare oak ended at the border of a thick wool rug. A dense, dark weave rising half an inch like a curb. No detour around the perimeter. I squared the front bumper and drove straight into the incline. Front tires struck the fibrous ridge. No metallic clatter this time—only a heavy, muted drag as the rubber sank into the twisted yarn. The die-cast frame tilted skyward under the grade. I kept steady momentum against the resistance until the rear axle cleared the timber. The chassis settled deep into the pile. Total silence under the tread. Station held.