The flute on the whatnot shelf spent the morning as a landlord. Each note was given a birdhouse no larger than a thimble, greeted the hole it would leave through, and waited for the curtain to nod. Only then did a single trill go out into the room.
We asked at the kiosk downstairs. "I used to blame the kettle," said the newspaper seller, tilting an ear toward the stairwell. "Now I know: if the curtain nods, the house has had its first tune."
The next morning the same seller came back with a second paper and stood in the doorway, just to be polite. The geranium kept still for the greeting, and the flute still played only once. The curtain, however, nodded again, as if the whole sill were still listening.