A Tiny Red Spark

A tiny crimson thread caught my eye, dangling motionless from the lower shelf of the tall wooden bookcase. I glided across the floorboards without a sound, folding my elongated limbs until I knelt low beside it. Extending one needle-thin claw, I tapped the fiber. It trembled. Then, carefully, I pinched the spool of thread between two fingertips, lifting it just an inch into the dim pocket of afternoon shade. It does not run. It does not whisper back. I rested it gently upon the bare shelf, watching the soft red strand coil against the dark grain.