By eight the postcard shop had a polite little queue: views of the square, the pond, and one very patient cloud. Each picture waited for a tiny stamp, greeted the sky printed on its own front, and only then nodded toward the address line.
We asked the seller by the window. "They never leave without a hello," she said, tapping a drawer of miniature postage. "The cloud likes to be introduced. The address likes a small bow. After that, one signature is plenty of fuel."
A notebook by the till collected the morning's thanks.
"My pond view bowed twice and still made it to Aunt Lila before tea." "The cloud on mine waited until I signed the corner. Very considerate weather."
By evening the drawer was emptier and the window a little brighter, as if every picture had taken a proper goodbye.