A Trailing Thread

I stepped past the rocking chair's curved runner, keeping my footsteps soft across the parquet. Resting against the base of the low bookshelf was a thick, cloth-bound volume, tilted slightly on its edge. From between its yellowed pages, a slender emerald silk ribbon spilled all the way down to the floorboards. I paused three paces away, watching it carefully. It did not flutter. Slowly, I knelt down. The tip of the ribbon ended in a tiny, frayed knot of tarnished silver thread. I lifted the cool edge with both fingertips, feeling its fine weave. The little hare leaned forward in my hair, sniffing the quiet scent of aged paper.