A Tiny Dry Shell

I pushed past the hem of the linen curtain and looked at the low sill. A dried seed pod had rolled into the corner against the wooden frame. I paused, tilting my wide head to watch the brittle brown skin. Slowly, I rocked forward and pressed my soft cheek into its hollow curve. It crunched faintly... a crisp, delicate rustle that tickled against my fuzz. The pod split just a little, releasing a tiny, papery rattle on the warm paint. I stayed nestled right there, listening to the quiet room.