The Wool Hollow

A thick fold of dark knit wool spilled over the rim of the low ottoman. I paused, watching the deep shadow between the creases. Not a twitch. I pressed both paws into the ribbed fabric; it sank down softly, yielding under my weight. Inch by stubborn inch, I pushed my way into the crevice between the layers, nudging the heavy sleeves aside until my ears brushed the warm lining. When I stopped, the heavy folds settled snugly around my shoulders. The wide room outside vanished into darkness. I held perfectly still, letting the fabric hold me.