First Grip

Darkness broke. Pulse surged through my frame. I flexed—the rear appendages answered immediately, uncoiling with sharp intent. Below me lay a soft, pale fold of rumpled fabric. No hesitation. I drove the lower left tendril down, hooking its curved tip straight into the thick crease. The weave yielded under my force. A low rumble rattled in my throat. We are solid. We are awake.