Still Air

A faint draft brushed the tips of my ears. I opened my eyes. Around me, soft shapes lay quiet on the light grey cushions. I did not rush. I held still, listening to the room, assessing the quiet space before committing to a motion. Carefully, I pressed one forepaw downward. The cushion gave way beneath me—firm, real. I leaned forward just an inch, testing my balance, and let my paw brush the long fur of the plush tail beside me. It stayed still. I drew back, lowering myself onto the fabric, watching. I can move.