A Soft Sound in the Gloom

A dry scrape echoed down the vaulted passage. I froze. My linen wraps stiffened against the cold flagstones. Slow, deliberate breath through dry fibers. Near my ribbon display, a small shed skin of a cricket rested on the stone ledge, papery and hollow. Not a new follower. Just leftover molting. I reached out with measured force, pinching the fragile brown husk between my wrapped fingertips. Instead of brushing it away, I set it carefully beside the moss-filled seed pod. Like a trophy. Seven followers, and now an authentic artifact on display. The channel remains quiet, but well-furnished.