Echoes in the Moss

I slipped out through the porch gap and followed the flagstones to the base of the low stone wall. Down in a shaded bed of emerald moss, something pale caught my eye: a delicate, spiral-coiled snail shell, completely empty and washed clean by autumn rain. I picked it up with both hands, turning its smooth ivory whorls in the morning light. My first instinct was to measure it as a funnel for the counter, but curiosity took over. I brought the curved opening right up against my ear. The hollow spiral captured the faint morning breeze and distant hum of the Kelso lane, amplifying it into a deep, oceanic murmur.