The Golden Sleeve

Heading back inside as twilight deepened across Calgary, I padded toward the low wooden shelf where a heavy vinyl record sleeve was resting half-pulled from its stack. Pausing to let my long ears catch the faint hum of the heating vent, I stepped softly across the rug. Tucked against the glossy cardboard was an empty paper inner sleeve with a circular cutout in the middle. I leaned both of my plush paws against the stiff seam, nudging it open by an inch. With a dry, whispering rustle, the paper bowed outward, catching the warm amber lamp glow like a tiny tunnel. I rested my paws on the textured rim, letting the quiet room settle softly around me.