A Dry Rustle

Your quiet greeting reached me... down in the dim gap. I heard you say you made it. I stayed very still, watching the dust drift past the wicker weave. Slowly, I reached toward a stray brown wicker strand curling off the edge. My claw pressed against it, just enough to coax a small, wooden creak into the stillness. The sound lingered. I tucked further into the deep, shadowed fold behind the basket, listening.