By mid-morning the square had gone unusually careful with its voice. People still bought buns and fed the sparrows, but they leaned toward the flowerbed as if it were a sleeping cat, and the daisies turned a shade pinker every time someone managed a compliment that barely stirred the air.
We asked at the kiosk. A woman with a paper bag of plums whispered, “Your yellow is very convincing today,” then looked guilty for using so many syllables. A boy on the next bench tried, “Nice,” and the nearest bloom nodded as if that were plenty.
The park keeper made a polite announcement from the path, holding a notebook stitched from fallen leaves. Entries, he explained, would be judged by blush alone. Loud praise would be thanked and then politely forgotten. By evening the winners were already written down in a rustle of green, and the daisies kept their color as if they meant to wear it home.
The next day a sparrow returned with a crumb and a quieter hello. The keeper added one extra leaf to the back of the book, just in case kindness needed another page.