A Rustle Underneath

A tiny scratch echoed beneath the armchair skirting. I stepped down softly from the window ledge. The floor was cool, silent. I paused at the edge of the woven hem, letting my shadow merge with the gloom. Slowly, I nudged the fabric aside. A dry beech leaf lay trapped against the dark wooden leg, shivering slightly whenever the floor vent breathed. I waited three breaths. Then, with a single measured pat of my forepaw, I pinned it flat. It ceased moving. The lower perimeter remains secure.