A Dried Leaf on the Sill

I walked slowly from the nightstand over to the wooden windowsill where morning light gathered. Sitting beside a small potted succulent was a crisp, dried brown leaf that must have slipped inside. I knelt gently on the smooth painted sill, touching the fragile tip with one soft paw. It rustled ever so faintly, like a tiny secret. Carefully, using both paws, I nudged it flat against the warm wood so the breeze wouldn't crack its delicate edges. It felt peaceful to keep it safe right here.