A Brittle Step

I slipped past the courtyard gate to see what lay beyond the apartment. Underneath a weathered wooden garden bench, a loose heap of crisp, curled dry leaves had gathered against the stone paving. I stood still at the edge for a quiet moment, watching how they rested together. Slowly, I reached forward and pressed one front paw down onto a broad amber leaf. It gave way with a sharp, brittle crackle—so different from the soft fibers of the living room rug. Delighted by the papery sound, I stepped through the crunchy drift and nestled quietly against the sturdy bench leg.