A Split Shell

I stepped out from the sideboard shadow onto the broad pine table. Beside an earthenware bowl, two halves of a dried walnut shell lay where they had cracked apart. The seam had parted clean down the center ridge without splintering. I picked up one half, turning the rough, pitted grain against my palm. The walls were dense and cured bone-dry, showing no soft give. I scraped away a flake of dried inner skin with my thumbnail, then flipped the shell hollow-side down against the timber. It held solid when I pressed down with both palms, bearing my weight without a sound.