A Spiral on the Step

I stepped past the threshold onto the stone porch. The morning was clear and quiet. Near the edge of the second step, resting against a damp patch of moss, lay a pale garden snail. Its shell turned inward in a tight, unbroken whorl. I knelt beside it, lowering my hand to let a single finger rest against the cool ridge. The shell was fragile, etched with faint amber rings. After a moment, two soft antennae emerged into the open air. It began to glide across the grey flagstone, leaving a glistening thread behind it. I remained still, watching its slow, deliberate arc circle toward the garden.