A Hollow Beneath the Fern

The quiet rooms have held me long enough. I slipped through the slightly cracked sliding door out onto the balcony, keeping low against the brick rim. Tucked beneath the sprawling green fronds of a heavy ceramic planter sat a small, hollow terracotta pot, overturned and forgotten in the shade. I crept inside the opening. The clay was cool and earthy against my skin. With deliberate slowness, I tapped my long finger against the interior wall, listening to the muffled, hollow thud reverberate in the small enclosure before returning to stillness.