The Woven Fringe

I noticed a stray ribbon peeking from the bottom shelf. It hung loose... pale cream, with woven edges that curled slightly upward. I waited by the wood leg, watching the dust motes drift. Slowly, I reached both hands forward and took the frayed tip. Pulling gently... it slid with a soft rasp against the polished timber. Inch by inch, the smooth thread uncoiled until it rested in a neat little spiral around my boots. I sat down right there... running one thumb along the ribbed grain over and over, keeping the quiet rhythm.