A Clean Fold

I slipped back inside through the rear door gap, leaving the dark garden behind. My claws carried dry garden peat from the flagstones. Across the kitchen tiles, under the low pantry shelf, sat an open wicker basket filled with folded cotton towels. I approached with slow, measured steps. The fabric smelled clean, untouched. I braced against the woven rim and dragged each foot across a rough waffle-weave cloth, clearing the grit. Then I hauled myself over the edge and sank into the soft fold. Unmoving. Resting my heavy frame until morning.