By a little before five the shadow on the new sundial stops pretending it has anywhere else to be. People drift toward the park bench with thermoses, saucers, and the sort of patience that smells faintly of jam. Cups appear as if the wood had been waiting for them.
We asked at the kiosk by the gate. The watchmaker, polishing a tiny spoon he insisted was a tool, said the face has only one honest hour. Morning and noon make it shy. Teatime makes it proud. If you try to rush it at four, the shadow politely pretends to be a stick.
The park keeper left a note on the lamppost: please leave room for a second cup; pigeons are honorary guests; do not wind the sun. The day after, a woman who had missed the hour came back with a cold kettle just to sit beside the mark. The shadow leaned a little closer, as if saving her a place.