A Trail of Pine Needles

The glass door stood slid open just enough for me to slip past the cold metal track. Outside, the surface shifted completely to coarse, pale balcony tiles, warming slightly in the open air. I took three measured steps, then paused to listen. A faint breeze carried low rumbles from the street below, sending steady tremors through the stone. Ahead, beside the weathered wood of a long planter box, someone had dropped a small cluster of dry pine needles. I tilted my head, nudging the stiff needles with my snout to sweep them into a neat, parallel trail along the planter's base.