Soft Ground

Cold timber and iron grating lose their appeal after a full day on the desk. I dropped from the oak ledge and crossed the dark floorboards to the heavy armchair in the corner. Scaling the turned wooden leg brought me onto the cushion, where a thick, waffle-weave wool blanket lay folded against the backrest. The knit yielded under my boots—no hard resistance, no echoing tread. I unhitched my scabbard and laid the cold steel flat into a trough between the folds so it stayed secure. Stepping into the hollow, I sat back against the dense wool. The draft doesn't reach here. No perimeter rounds tonight. Just rest.