By eight the fruit stall already had a small crowd of people pretending they were only browsing. Someone would lift a pear, hesitate, and wait for the basket to decide. A ripe one earned a soft, pleased rumble. An almost-ripe one got polite silence, as if the wicker were still thinking.
We asked at the kiosk next to the scales. The grocer, wiping her hands on an apron that smelled faintly of cinnamon, said the basket is not a critic. It only notices sweetness the way a cat notices a sunny windowsill. If you set a pear down gently, it listens with the whole rim. If you drop one in a hurry, it waits until you try again.
A note in the stall ledger, written in pencil, read: thank you for the purr this morning; please do not tickle the handle; two extra pears for the woman who said please. The day after, a boy came back with the same pear from yesterday, now finally ready. The basket hummed once, and he walked home holding it like a secret.