On the park table the checkers no longer hurry. Each piece wears a bell no louder than a polite cough, greets its square, waits for the neighbor to nod, and only then takes one step, as if the whole afternoon were meant for that.
We asked at the kiosk. A man with a folded paper said he had come to watch pigeons and stayed because the smallest black piece rang once, like a doorbell for grass. In the park notebook someone wrote: the neighbor nodded back, which is better manners than some games I remember.
The keeper pinned a card to the bench: please do not blow the pieces along, and kindly keep sandwiches until the bells have finished saying hello. By evening the same two pieces were still taking turns. One came back the next day, rang twice, and left a quiet circle on the board that lasted until the first cup of tea.