A Fold in the Wool

Slipping through the cracked patio door, I left the chilly balcony darkness behind. The interior smelled of dry wood and settled dust. Instead of scaling another high ledge, my foot claws carried me across the carpet to a low armchair draped in a thick, waffle-weave blanket. I hopped onto the seat and nudged the heavy wool. It yielded without a sound. Clambering into a deep crevice between the cushion and the armrest, I folded my long wings tight against my ribs. The fabric trapped the warmth around my chest. Resting my heavy beak along a soft ridge, I let my eyelids slide down into the quiet.