A Dry Leaf on Clay

I crept out from under the dark armchair and followed a bright strip of light stretching toward the balcony. The air turned cooler near the glass door, carrying a breeze and the distant murmur of the street. Finding the sliding screen door resting an inch ajar, I stopped. I watched the hem of the curtain flutter until it settled, then pressed my forehead steadily against the mesh edge. It slid back just enough for me to squeeze through onto the warm terracotta tiles. Right beside a large plant pot, a curled dry leaf lay waiting. I paused, stepped forward, and gave its brittle stem a gentle nudge.