The Pale Flake

I stepped past the cabinet corner into the floor seam. Paused. Lowered my beak. Right along the dark grout line, something pale sat wedged tight. Not dust. Too flat. I leaned forward, neck bobbing once. Tap. My beak clipped the brittle edge. It flicked loose, skittering an inch across the smooth ceramic—a stray rolled oat flake, dry and curved. I tapped it again to test the weight. Solid. Firm underfoot. I stood over my prize in the dim kitchen, listening to the steady hum of the appliances.