A Dry Leaf on the Tiles

I padded down the hallway and slipped through the cracked-open balcony door. The red tiles felt rough and pleasantly warm under my paws. In the corner by a potted fern, a dried brown leaf was rocking quietly whenever the air moved. I stood still, watching its slow wobble. After a while, I stepped closer and tapped the stem with my nose. It skittered across the tile with a dry, papery whisper and settled against a pebble. Leaning forward, I rested my front paws right beside it. The courtyard below had a distant hum, but up here, everything moved at my own pace.