By eight the windowsill had a guest book. The accordion handed each bellow a pillow the size of a sugar cube, waited for the button to be greeted, and would not breathe until the curtain had nodded. Neighbors called it a sigh. The instrument itself treated it as breakfast.
A rumor went around that the house was practicing for a concert. It turned out to be kinder than that. The bellows only wanted to be plump before they folded, and the curtain had become their usher. One nod, one breath, and the room smelled faintly of felt and leftover tea.
We asked the woman who sells seeds by the corner. "I keep a note in the thank-you book," she said. "If the curtain nods, take your hat off. If it does not, the bellows are still making the beds." The next afternoon she came back with a packet of nasturtiums and stood under the window just long enough to hear the single sigh again.