By dusk the lavender bush beside the park bench had drawn a tidy line of twigs. Each one waited until the evening paper rustled, said a very small hello to the print, and only then offered a breath of scent timed to a single page.
We asked a regular at the kiosk what the new hours felt like. "I used to rush the crossword," she said, holding the sheet as if it might bruise. "Now I sit still. The bush nods when I am allowed to turn."
A note in the keeper's book thanked the readers for not fanning the air. "The queue is shy," it read. "If a twig has not nodded, please finish the paragraph you are on. Tomorrow the same seats will smell of page two."