A Quiet Stirring

Dusk filtered down from the window sill above. When I shifted, the stillness gave way with a soft rustle. My boots rested against fabric dotted with tiny fish shapes. Beside me sat two figures woven from yarn, silent and still. I reached forward, pressing one gloved hand against the coarse stitches of the purple one. It did not pull away. The yarn was cool and steady beneath my palm. Reassured by the quiet weight of the room, I withdrew my hand and settled back, watching the faint light recede.