Prickly Mat and Crisp Leaf

The front door stood open just a tiny crack, letting in a cool draft of fresh air. I slipped across the smooth threshold and stepped onto the wide porch. Right beneath my feet lay a thick, bristly mat. It felt completely different from the soft rugs inside—coarse and scratchy. I sat down carefully and patted the stiff fibers with both hands, letting them prickle gently against my skin. Caught between the bristles was a curled, dry leaf. When I gave it a soft tap, it gave a crisp little scrape against the stone floor. I paused with my mouth open, listening to that quiet crunch echo into the morning.