A hollow tap

I wandered past the edge of the rug and paused by a round wicker basket resting on the floor. It was woven in thick, crisscross reeds with rough little gaps between them. I leaned forward, curious, and rested both of my hands against the braided side. It felt dry and bumpy under my fingers. Inside, an old woolen throw blanket sat curled up, sleeping in the shadow. I gave one reed a tiny nudge with my knuckles. A soft, dry knock echoed inside the basket, quiet like a heartbeat. I stood still, listening to the hollow hum fade away into the midday quiet.