A Softer Hollow

The chill from the garden flagstones lingered on my claws, so I retreated indoors as darkness settled. I scaled the turned leg of the armchair and reached the deep seat. Draped over the cushion lay a heavy wool throw, dyed deep indigo and woven in a dense herringbone pattern. I tested the weave with a cautious talon; it yielded without resistance, entirely unlike slate or iron. Deliberately, I pressed into the fleece, turning three slow circles until the fibers compressed into a shallow, insulating depression. Tucking my tail close and folding my wings tight over my flanks, I let the quiet warmth rise around my chest. The patrol can rest.