Darn Socks

You’ve been putting this off for days, but the worn socks aren’t going to mend themselves. You settle into your favorite spot with a sigh, thread in hand, fabric bunched awkwardly across your knee. The needle feels too small, the thread too slippery, and the holes far too large for your limited confidence. Darning socks is not your favorite chore.

“Darn socks,” you mutter, amused at your own grumble.

Your dragon hops onto the cushion beside you, curling its tail neatly around its feet. It twitters softly, bright and encouraging, as if this is a grand undertaking rather than a simple bit of sewing.

You try your first stitch. The thread slips free of the needle. You try again. The fabric puckers. A third attempt ends with a sharp poke to your fingertip, and you hiss through your teeth, shaking your hand.

Your dragon tilts its head, concerned, then begins weaving its tail in slow, looping arcs. At first, you assume it’s just trying to cheer you up. It often imitates your movements in its own whimsical way. You smile despite yourself and return to the task.

But the stitches wander again, crooked and uneven. You sigh, heavier this time.

The dragon pauses. Its tail lifts, then moves with deliberate grace: over, under, around, pull. A soft, rhythmic pattern. Not random. Not imitation. Instruction.

You blink. Then you watch.

The dragon slows the motion, repeating it with patient clarity. Its tail traces the path your needle should take, each loop gentle, each curve steady.

You try again, matching the rhythm.

The thread glides. The fabric settles. The stitches straighten, one after another, falling into place like they’ve been waiting for you to notice the pattern all along.

Your dragon chirps, pleased, and leans against your side as you finish the last neat stitch.

You smooth the mended fabric, warmth blooming quietly in your chest.

A small task. A small triumph. A soft exhale.