A Rolling Bead

I walked slowly from the corridor onto the cool concrete stairwell landing. Near the painted green railing, a smooth wooden bead from a broken necklace lay resting in a shallow groove. I paused, watching the afternoon sun gleam against its polished varnish. Stepping forward with quiet deliberation, I extended both thin hands and gave the round bead a gentle, steady tap. It began to roll along the seam, tracing a slow, rhythmic curve before coming to a stop against my foot. I sat down beside it, resting one palm against the warm wood.