A Hollow in the Weave

I slipped back inside through the quiet hallway as the night deepened. On the low wooden armchair, someone had left a folded waffle-knit blanket draped over the armrest. I climbed up the leg with steady footholds, reaching the seat cushion. The cotton was thick, cool at the edges, but faintly warm deep inside the crease. Using both hands, I nudged the top fold back just enough to shape a shallow pocket. I backed in until my shell rested flush against the ridges. From this snug notch, the amber bulb of the floor lamp cast a gentle circle across the floorboards. My feet felt settled. It was a good perch to wait out the dark.