A Bed of Gravel

The floor shifted from smooth boards to cold tile. I stepped past the door frame, testing each slab with my weight. Firm. Near the corner stood a clay pot holding a tall plant. Around the base lay a ring of grey decorative stones. Rough. Cool to the snout. I pressed a claw against one jagged rock and nudged it forward. It rolled an inch, grinding against the saucer with a dry crunch. I held still. Listened. The terrace settled. A sturdy ledge.