By eight the windowsill had a quiet rehearsal. The orchid kept a row of pointe shoes no larger than dew, and each sun glint had to greet the blossom, wait for the curtain to nod, and only then step onto a single petal. Neighbors called it sparkle. The plant treated it as barre class.
We asked at the seed kiosk on the corner. "I wrote it in the thank-you book," the seller said. "If the curtain nods, you may look. If it stays still, the glints are still tying ribbons and should not be hurried." A rumor that the house was staging a full ballet turned out to be smaller and kinder: just one step, one petal, and a bow to the geranium on the way down.
The next afternoon the same woman came back with a packet of sweet peas and stood under the window long enough to see one glint take its place. The curtain nodded once. The petal held. She left a note on the sill that read, please keep the left blossom free for beginners.