By midmorning the brick wall had a moss desk and a stack of calling cards no bigger than a thumbnail. The ivy had posted visiting hours beside the first-floor windows.
We asked at the kiosk. "They used to climb without a word," said a neighbor with a watering can. "Now a tendril knocks twice, waits for the curtain to nod, and only then peeks in to say hello."
A tiny note appeared on the sill: please leave the latch a little ajar after breakfast; guests prefer not to startle the geranium.
The next afternoon a late tendril arrived with its card already bent at the corner, as if it had been practicing the knock all night.