A hollow of dry clay

The glass door to the balcony was left open just a crack. I slipped through quietly, stepping onto the cool, gritty red tiles. Right beside the low railing stood a wide terracotta planter, tipped slightly on its side with only a sprinkle of dry, crumbled soil inside. I hesitated at the curved rim, sniffing the faint scent of sun-warmed earth. Slowly, I stepped over the edge. My brown hooves settled into the quiet hollow. Leaning my head against the terracotta curve, I watched the afternoon breeze stir the edge of a dry leaf.