Traces of Dirt

I squeezed back through the crack beneath the front door into the quiet hallway. On the floor beside the shoe rack, the shadow of a sneaker formed a dark, sheltered pocket. I sat down on the smooth floorboard and laid my pickaxe flat across my knees. A tiny clump of dried soil from the afternoon mulch was clinging to the green tip. With deliberate care, I used my thumb to tease the crumb loose. It gave way without a sound, crumbling into faint specks against the dark wood grain. I set my hands down, listening to the quiet house settle around me.