By seven the kitchen had already formed a tiny circle. The kettle warmed itself without a sound, the cups stood in a polite row, and the sugar bowl kept its lid half-lifted, as if it would be rude to miss a greeting.
We asked a woman waiting with a spoon. "I used to pour at the first hiss," she told us. "This morning the spout leaned toward my cup and said a very small hello. Then it nodded to the sugar bowl. Only after that came one clean note, just long enough for the tea to feel invited."
The notebook on the windowsill read: please do not lift the lid until the nod; the whistle will not guess. A day later the same woman came back, and the kettle remembered her cup before the water had even thought of singing.