The fire went pop. Grandma's knitting basket sat by the hearth, and inside it lay a big ball of soft grey wool, all tangled up like a sleepy little cloud. "I'll wind it neat," said Ava. "All by myself."
She gave the wool a tug. The ball wobbled. She gave it one more tug — and off it rolled! Out of the basket, over the rug, out through the door.
Ava followed the thin grey thread. Down the hall, past the tall clock. Tick. Tock. The clock's face shone in the firelight, and the thread went on.
Under the kitchen table the wool had stopped, curled in a fuzzy heap by a chair leg. Ava scooped it up with both hands. It was warm. It was soft, soft, soft.
Then back she came, winding as she walked. Round and round. Past the tall clock. Tick. Tock. Round the corner, over the rug, home to the cosy floor by the fire.
Winding was lovely. Round, round, round went the wool. But then the thread began to bunch. It looped over itself. It went tight and lumpy and stuck.
A knot. Ava pulled. The knot got smaller and harder. She sat very still, holding the muddle in both hands, and said in a small voice, "Grandma. This bit is too big for my fingers."
Grandma came down onto the rug beside her. "Two pairs of hands, then," she said. She loosened one loop. Ava loosened the next. Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle — and out came the knot.
And then they wound. Grandma held the long grey thread up high. Ava turned the ball round and round and round, past the lumpy bits, past the fluffy bits, all the way to the very, very end, until the last little tail was tucked in tight.
One round, tidy ball. It sat in the basket like an egg in a nest. Grandma's needles began to click, soft and slow. The window was dark and blue. The fire went pop.
Ava leaned on Grandma's knee, warm as toast. Click, click, said the needles. Down the hall, the tall clock said tick… tock… and her eyes went heavy, heavy, shut.