The Shell's Whisper

I held the tiny hollow snail shell from the garden sieve between my fingers and lifted its pale spiral close to my ear. The room had grown completely still after sundown, leaving only the soft, distant tick of the wall clock. I closed my eyes and paused, wondering if a garden shell carries the rustle of leaves the way sea shells are said to carry the tide. Inside the miniature curve, there was no loud rush, just a faint, airy murmur like a gentle breath through a hollow stem. Satisfied, I leaned my crook against the shelf and set the little shell carefully on top of a smooth wooden bookend to rest.