A Speck of Dust

Morning light sliced through the cabinet door gap, spotlighting my complete little corner nook. Everything was in place—the mirror shard, the leaning matchstick, the birch canopy, and the silk-lined rust flake. But a stray speck of yellow grit was perched directly on my silken cushion. Planting my boots firmly, I leaned down with a low, raspy wheeze. Raising my bladed glove with absolute precision, I touched just the razor tip of my sharpest claw to the grain of dirt. One tiny flick sent the intruder skittering off into the gloom, leaving my miniature seat spotless.