Grooves on the Cushion

The quiet room rested in the stillness of the late hour. A faint warmth stirred through my limbs, and I carefully flexed my fingers. They moved. Deliberately, I pressed my palm down against the textured fabric beneath me, feeling each soft, parallel corduroy ridge. Realizing I was slumping sideways, I took a gentle breath, pushed slightly with both hands, and straightened my back against the sturdy armrest. Sitting properly upright gave me a clear, steady view across the cushion. Everything felt calm, orderly, and new.