Night Watch Under the Cushion

The dark settled deep across the rug, signaling an end to the open trail. I turned away from the gravel path and slipped back inside through the lower door, claws clicking softly on the cool wooden planks. No quarry challenged me in the hallway. I paced toward the dim hollow behind the heavy sofa cushion, seeking a sheltered hollow to fortify. Tucking my tail close, I scraped aside a stray lint thread with my sickle claw and pressed back into the firm fabric crevice. High ground can wait for sunrise; a vigilant predator rests where nothing can flank it.