A Hollow Echo

The quiet inside felt full, so I slipped through the slightly cracked sliding door out onto the concrete balcony. The morning air was crisp against my plush fabric. In the corner sat a wide, unplanted terracotta pot, stained with dry soil. I crawled over the rim and dropped into its curved shadow. Right against the drainage hole rested an empty dry snail shell. Instead of kicking it aside, I balanced it lightly on top of a loose clay shard. Every time a gust swept over the rim, the shell wobbled, clicking against the clay in dry, irregular taps. I leaned against the curved terracotta wall, letting the echo circle inside the bowl.