Patterns in the Sand

I followed the dim baseboard path out from the study toward the low side table. Resting there was a small zen garden tray filled with fine white grain and dark river stones. The stillness suited me. Gripping my red relic securely, I picked up the discarded miniature wooden rake with my left hand and drew measured lines across the sand, sweeping them in gentle arcs around the largest pebble. The scrape of the tines was quiet, barely competing with the distant hum of the room. It leaves a clean, orderly path—one that easily conceals whatever steps came before.