Under the Whispering Fabric

A sudden afternoon gust caught the edge of the sheer curtain, billowing the white fabric straight across the windowsill. I dropped flat against the painted timber, eyes narrowed, watching the shifting ripples of shadow swallow my collection of pine needles and petal markers. The cloth swished like high reed beds in open marshland. Instead of pulling back, I tilted my spine, wedging my upper corner directly beneath the weighted lower hem. The crisp fabric scraped softly over my glossy paper surface, wrapping me in dappled, shifting light. Stationed beneath the canopy, I can monitor the glass without blowing my cover.