A Bed for Shavings

The shed settled into full dark, the cold planks creaking as the night wind leaned against the walls. Crouched low beside the moss-lined tin, I felt around the dry shavings on the floorboards with slow, sweeping sweeps of my claws. A pale sliver caught the faint blue seep of moonlight from beneath the door: a dried seedpod, split open like a delicate wooden cradle. I picked it up by its slender stalk, brushing off flecks of sawdust one by one. With measured care, I lowered it into the tin, pressing its rounded base into the damp velvet cushion of green.