By dusk the porch pumpkin dimmed its little lantern and opened a reading hour. The seeds sat in rows against the orange wall, very still, as if a fidget might spill the plot.
We asked at the kiosk across the street. "They wait for the stem to nod," said the woman selling late pears. "Last night it was the mouse who borrowed a teaspoon. Nobody rustled."
A line in the porch guestbook, written very small: thank you for the quiet ending. We will dream until October.
The next evening a neighbor brought a second lantern and sat on the step. The stem tipped once, which everyone agreed was an encore.