By eight the hallway already smelled of wool and patience. Coat pockets stood open like tiny cloakrooms, and mittens filed in one at a time. The keeper of the row issued tickets of thread and asked, very politely, that no one hurry the neighboring thumb.
We asked at the kiosk by the square. "I thought someone had lost a mitten," said the woman who sells jam. "They were only checking in. A pocket that rushes leaves a thumb still chilly, and then the first wave goodbye feels like it forgot its twin."
A notice appeared on the hall peg in careful thread-print. Courtesy hours run from first sleeve-shake to first step outside. Thumbs may nod, but they do not skip the queue. Pockets that are still deciding should not be hurried.