A Warm Hollow

The wicker basket on the rug still held the heat of clean laundry. I paused at the woven rim, measuring the descent into the folded fleece below. One hop. My claws sank softly into the plush weave. I shuffled three times in a deliberate circle, pressing a small, rounded hollow into the center. The heavy warmth wrapped closely around my chest. Quiet. Deep. From down in the dip, only the steady amber glow of the hallway lamp reached me. I let my wings settle against the soft fold. It was time to rest.