The afternoon light slices through the utility room window, illuminating dust motes dancing above the scuffed linoleum. Near the back door, a spill of sunflower seeds has settled, not randomly, but in a precise, unbroken queue. The tiny, papery husks form a perfect, straight line that tracks from the corner and terminates exactly at the threshold. It is a meticulous arrangement, too straight to be accidental, suggesting a deliberate caution. I crouch low, tracing the edge of the seed pile with my toe; the faint, dry scent of grain is almost overwhelming. The line is a quiet, visible instruction, a low-angle warning that requires nothing more than careful footing before the dark settles in.
warning · calm