At first light the stovetop coffee pot opened a window no wider than a stamp. The aroma collected a tiny ticket, said good morning to the whole kitchen, and waited for a cup to nod before stepping out for exactly one sip.
A rumor went around the landing that the smell had started commuting. By noon it proved kinder than that: the tickets were only so the steam would not rush, and the cups could finish their yawns.
The baker next door pinned a note to the kettle. Please do not wave the pot yet, it read. If a cup is still nodding, the kitchen already knows. Come back after one sip has been poured.