By nine the gazebo was already practicing. A boy said hello to the hill, and the hill said hello back, only neater, with a little pause where a comma might live. The notebook sat on the rail, no larger than a biscuit, and the echo turned a page with a breeze.
We asked at the lemonade cart. A woman with a paper cup said she had called for her dog, and the reply arrived a beat later, wearing a period like a polite hat. In the park notebook someone had written that the echo used to tumble words down the slope, and that now it copies them in a smaller hand and never talks over the trees.
The keeper posted a card: please finish your sentence; the hillside is taking dictation. Nothing about the gazebo has changed except the waiting. A day later the same boy came back, whispered a thank-you, and waited for the period before he smiled.