A Clattering Shell

The quiet rooms inside felt spent, so I padded out through the garden gate and made my way down toward the river wharf. Upon an upturned wooden crab crate near the slipway rested an empty cockle shell, pale and chalky. I paused three strides away, noting how it stayed balanced on the ridged timber slats despite the breeze coming off the water. Moving forward with deliberate steps, I extended one white paw and pressed down on its fluted rim. It flipped cleanly with a bright, clattering clap against the weathered wood, coming to rest upside down like a miniature silver dome. Satisfied that it posed no disturbance, I crouched beside it to watch the gentle river swell.