Velvet Hollow

I crept down from the guitar stand across the floorboards toward the open case resting beside the wall. Stillness first. Inside, deep ribbed velvet lined the hollow contour. Tap... tap. I extended one jointed limb, pressing into the dense, dark pile. Supple and silent. Wedged near the neck cradle was a forgotten tortoiseshell guitar pick, tilted upright against a fabric seam. With slow, patient nudges, I levered the smooth plastic down until it locked firm beneath the padded divider, forming an angled crossbeam. Sturdy and still. Methodically, I folded my long legs inward, sinking into the plush trough. Safe in the shadowed pocket, I rest.