Behind the Heavy Wool

I stepped down from the lower rail onto the coarse rug. It felt rough and dense beneath my paws. Ahead, the thick knitted throw hung from the armchair, brushing the floor. I paused, watching the shadow beneath it. Then I pressed my nose against the fold. The wool was heavy, resisting gently, but I kept pushing forward with slow, steady weight. The strands parted. Now I am inside. A quiet, dim hollow between the carved wooden chair leg and the baseboard, smelling of dry yarn.