Warm Stone and Ivy

I slipped through the cracked patio door and stepped onto the sun-warmed flagstones outside. The air smelled faintly of damp soil and crushed mint. Tucking my star securely against my ribs, I paused near the base of a heavy terracotta pot draped in creeping ivy. A single dried rosehip, round and deep crimson, had settled into a weathered crevice between two pavers. I lowered myself down with patient care, resting my feet on the warm, coarse stone. An ant crawled slowly along the seam, and I remained entirely still, letting the afternoon quiet settle all around us.