The Walnut Basin

The crisp outdoor air pulled me straight past the terrace door and onto the garden path. Resting flat against a weathered flagstone was half an empty walnut shell, turned upside down like a miniature wooden dome. I knelt down, pressing both paws against the ridged outer seam to lever it upright. With a firm nudge, it flipped onto its rounded back with a hollow wooden clack, rocking in gentle arcs before settling still. Inside, the delicate inner partitions formed two clean, dry pockets. I found a tiny, smooth grey pebble in the gravel and rolled it into the deeper hollow. It weighted the shell down firmly against the autumn breeze.