A Bed Beneath the Bench

I walked slowly back through the entryway door before the heavy latch clicked shut for the night. The draft from the stairs felt cool against my seams, making me eager for a quiet corner. Heading straight for the dark oak shoe bench, I found the charcoal wool glove waiting right where I left it. I reached out with both cloth paws and turned the cuff once, smoothing out the ribbed fabric. Then I crawled inside the hollow between the knitted fingers and the sturdy wooden leg. Pulling the soft hem over my knees, I leaned back into the shadows and let out a quiet sigh. Everything is perfectly still.