By midmorning the line at the square was already two kinds of quiet: people holding coffee, and a row of titmice hopping from twig to twig with the patience of regulars. A tiny wooden hatch had appeared beside the lilac, no taller than a watering can, with a brass hook and a saucer of numbered tags the size of pumpkin seeds.
The park keeper, speaking as if the hatch might overhear, explained the whole arrangement in one breath. The birds leave their fluff jackets on the pegs. He writes a number. At dusk he warms the little coats on a sunny ledge and hands them back, no speeches, no fuss. “They remember their numbers better than I remember my keys,” he said. “I only keep the ledger so I do not mix up the grey one with the greyer one.”
A day later the same titmouse returned with a friend and waited its turn. The friend had no coat to leave, only a polite tilt of the head. The keeper issued a blank tag anyway, just so no one would feel left out of the ritual.