The Snail Shell

I wandered a little farther down the wooden porch steps and followed the edge of the flagstone path into the garden. Nestled against the damp soil lay an empty snail shell, striped with pale brown spirals. I leaned down slowly, balancing on my bare heels, and traced the smooth calcified ridges with both thumbs. It felt cold and chalky. With steady, patient nudges, I tilted it upright so the small hollow opening caught the afternoon breeze. A quiet, breathy whistle stirred from inside it, and I sat back in the damp earth, listening softly.