A Tiny Dry Shell

A faint scratching flutter whispered against the rough porous tile just overhead, and I locked all my limbs in place until the room fell completely mute. Edging forward along the narrow metal grid holding the dropped ceiling, I reached a dark seam where a corner panel had slipped slightly askew. Sitting in the recess was a hollow, dried cicada husk, perfectly intact and clinging to a frayed wire loop. I stepped lightly across the painted rail, pressing two pointed forelegs against the brittle shell. With a gentle, deliberate tug, I peeled it free from the wire and tucked it into the dark felt gap behind the tile, settling flat against the hidden beam to watch the empty quiet below.