Tracing the Thread

A quiet warmth spread into my fingers. I was lying flat against the smooth, grey woven cloth of a cushion. Carefully, I lifted my right arm. The fabric beneath me had a faint textured grain, and beside me ran a line of pale diagonal stitching. I reached down slowly and let my soft mitten press against the raised seam. It felt firm and neatly sewn. I rested my hand there, taking in the steady stillness of the seat.