By late afternoon the balcony already looked like a tiny theater. Cats took the railing in a neat row, tails tucked, as if someone had marked the seats with sunlight.
We asked at the kiosk downstairs. "They used to sprawl anywhere," said the florist, wrapping a geranium. "Now they sit still until the sun finishes its bow. The roof likes a proper curtain call."
A note on the stair said please do not lean too far; the front row was spoken for until dusk.
The next evening a tabby came back early and waited with one paw on the rail, ready for the encore before the sky had even cleared its throat.