The Clutter that Breathes

The doom pile sat on the table. Watching.

She grabbed her keys and left. Late in the evening she returned, tossing today’s mail onto its mass. She baked a quick pizza, curled onto the couch, and pressed play on her comfort show.

The pile watched the routine, patient and unmoving. Something rustled deep inside its weight, faint as a whisper. She didn’t hear.

She slept. She woke. Keys again. Gone again. Late again. Another pizza. Another episode. Always the same.

Until the pile stirred.

Papers shifted. A journal slipped free and struck the floor. The pizza froze mid-bite. Eyes wide, she turned toward the heap.

The pile breathed. Rose and fell in the silence.

Her hand searched the cushions until it found the remote. The pile shifted. She hurled it across the room. The pile erupted: mail, glitter, papers, journals bursting into the air.

From its center, something leapt. A squirrel. It scrambled across the floor, shrieking for escape. It knocked over a lamp. Glitter clinging to its tail.

She screamed louder. Pizza hit the carpet. She lunged for the window as the squirrel lunged its way through, disappearing into the night.

Silence fell.

The doom pile slumped back into shape.

It waited.