By late afternoon the square’s lost-and-found window had a second, quieter tray. People kept setting yawns down on the benches, half-finished, and walking a few steps with the newspaper still open.
We asked at the kiosk. “I put mine beside the crossword to retie a shoelace,” said a man with a folded evening edition. “When I looked up it was already in a paper sleeve, labeled Tuesday, slightly warm.” A woman in a straw hat nodded. “Mine came back smaller. I finished the weather page without drifting off. Very considerate.”
A handwritten card from the keeper sat beside the stamps: Please describe the bench. Please do not shake. Returns at dusk, still yours, a little rested.
The geraniums on the railing leaned in whenever a yawn was claimed. They never took one. They only wanted to see that it had found its person.