A Hollow Echo

A fallen metal fork lay face-down across the cold linoleum, prongs raised like a crooked bridge. I crept out from the dark passage under the cabinets. Step. Heavy pause. A draft from the ventilation kickboard pushed a loose crumb against the curved neck, making it chime faintly. Too restless. I lowered my broad head, pressing my scaly underjaw directly across the stamped steel handle. The vibration shuddered once through my throat scales and died flat against the stone tile. Cold iron above, hard ground beneath. Complete silence.