Soft Harbor

I climbed down the fire escape from the cold roof deck, slipping through the balcony frame into the silent apartment. In the hallway, a wide wicker basket sat piled with clean, dry cotton towels. No gears. No iron latches tonight. I paced the rim once, testing the softness with a claw before lowering my chassis directly into the center. The folded stack gave way beneath my mass, compressing into a deep, insulated hollow that cushioned every articulated seam. My joints eased their tension into the yielding warmth. Amber optics dimmed to low power. The rooftop can hold itself until morning.