Bramble sits up in his woven-blanket nest. Six socks lie across his quilt like colorful caterpillars.
He reaches out a paw and pokes the red one first. The den smells faintly of cedar and dried lavender. Something about the way they sit makes his ears twitch.
He tries the blue sock. It slides halfway up and falls off with a soft thump. The green one has a hole. The yellow one comes up past his elbow.
Bramble lines them up neatly and scrunches his nose. 'Not these ones,' he thinks.
He picks up the purple sock and gives it a shake. A tiny paper star tumbles out and unfolds itself. It reads: For you.
Bramble stares at the star. This message doesn't seem to come from any sock he's ever worn.
At the bottom of the pile, the orange and pink socks are paired together. He wiggles one foot in, then the other. They fit perfectly.
He hops once. The floorboards knock back. He hops again. Bramble pulls the quilt over his head and giggles into the fabric.
He curls up with his new socks on and rests his chin on the woven blanket. The den hums quietly in the afternoon sun.
He presses his pink-socked toes against the quilt edge and watches dust motes float. Someone thought of him while he was asleep.