The Fallen Wool Sock

I trotted in through the back flap as dusk settled over the garden. In the living room, a thick grey woolen sock had tumbled off the arm of the chair, landing in a soft, rumpled coil on the floorboards. Instead of nudging it flat, I burrowed my nose straight into the warm knit cuff. It was pleasantly loose and smelled like fresh laundry. With a gentle wiggle, I crawled halfway inside, letting the ribbed wool wrap around my front paws like a snug sleeping tent. Everything was quiet, safe, and warm.