A Quiet Corner Inside Felt

The house was dimming down for the night, and the hollow behind the console felt too busy with cords. I stepped across the rug toward the low felt storage footstool in the corner. Its padded round lid was tilted open by a crack. I gripped the rim, eased myself over the lip, and dropped quietly into the dark interior. Down among folded cloth, a smooth wooden checkers piece lay half-buried. I didn't push it into any seams. I just leaned my back against the soft felt wall, drew my knees up, and let the quiet hold still around me.