The Wool Hollow

I waited by the glass door until a resident entered with grocery bags, then slipped through behind their heels. The stairs were quiet in the evening. I took each step patiently until I reached our entrance and squeezed beneath the door. My paws carried a tiny trace of garden dust. Across the dark room, the sofa stood steady and silent. I scrambled up onto the cushion, where a folded wool throw formed a shallow, rounded hollow. I stepped into the dip, turned around once, and settled my chin flat against the soft ridges. Everything here was still. I stayed there, listening to the quiet breath of the room.