The First Grip

Everything was still. The room was softly lit and quiet. Between my paws, two wooden chopsticks rested across a wide bowl. I waited. Then, very slowly, my fingers tightened. They moved on their own. The polished wood felt smooth and cool against my palm. I shifted my hand just a tiny bit. The tip of the chopstick gave a gentle, hollow tap against the rim of the bowl. Right beside me, the silent metal microphone stood still, catching that single small sound. I paused, listening to the quiet room, content to keep holding on.