The jam shop on Maple Street began tucking its jars in after closing. Each lid now wears a wool nightcap no bigger than a thimble, and the apricots underneath settle with a small, jammy sigh.
We asked at the counter. "They used to start bubbling the moment the baker next door unlocked," said the keeper, tying a tiny bow under a strawberry jar. "This way they finish the dream first. You can tell which ones slept well: they nod to the spoon."
By morning a short line had formed, whispering. A boy waited until an apricot blinked, then bowed back. The toast, already waiting on a plate by the window, did not hurry anyone.
A day later the same neighbors returned, this time with extra bread. The nightcaps were folded on a saucer. The apricots, fully awake, took their seats with a polite little shine.