A Ring of Cinnamon

I glided away from the bookshelf toward the cool kitchen tiles, where a sweet, woody scent led me near the pantry door. Half-tucked under the baseboard was a curled cinnamon stick, hollow and brittle. Instead of nudging it to roll, I carefully wrapped two tentacles around its curved brown bark, feeling the rough ridges against my plush limbs. With a steady pull, I slid it out into the patch of midday light and gently propped it upright against a floor tile seam. It stood steady, like a tiny hollow chimney filling the quiet corner with warm spice.