By midmorning the cuckoo-clock shop had a notice in the window: guest robes, bird-sized, complimentary with every winding. The idea, said the clockmaker, was simple. The little door is drafty, the parlor is polite, and nobody should have to announce the hour in work feathers.
We asked at the kiosk across the street. “She peeked out at ten,” said a man with a warm bun, “nodded to the sofa like a visiting aunt, and only then said the word. My tea felt invited.” A woman with a shopping net added that the robe has a tiny belt, and the bird will not cuckoo until it is tied. “House rules,” she said. “Even for hours.”
The day after, a neighbor swore the eleven o’clock visit lasted an extra breath, just long enough for the cat on the rug to return the nod. The clockmaker insists this is not a delay. It is manners. The hour still arrives; it simply puts on something comfortable first.