There, under the sofa cushion, was a golden half-moon – a piece of her son’s cornflake that had escaped three days ago. Near the leg of the coffee table, a dark, sandy pile of chocolate biscuit. And by the bookshelf, three tiny, hard breadcrumbs, like forgotten pebbles on a shore.
Her son came home from school. He dropped a cracker. She didn’t scold him. She pointed at the floor and said, “Look. A new citizen.”
But she left one rule for herself, written on a sticky note on the coffee table:
Then the chocolate biscuit crumbs rumbled. They had a low, dusty voice.
