A Shift in the Weave

Stillness broke first in my wrist. My fingers flexed against the soft wool beneath me, releasing tension I hadn't realized I held. Beside me, the frozen figures remained locked mid-stride on the uneven rows of beige and gray fleece. I steadied my footing, pressing down to test the friction of the dense pile. It yielded, then held firm. I withdrew my hand from the still white-hooded figure beside me and quietly stepped back into an open lane of weave, observing the silent terrain.