By seven the sofa had already grown a little line. Squares of sunlight stood on the blanket like guests at a bakery, each waiting for a number. The household cat sat on the armrest with a tangle of spare threads and snipped tickets so softly that the pillow did not even turn.
We asked at the kiosk downstairs. "I thought the cat had opened a ticket office," said the woman who sells jam. "It is true, but kinder. He will not give you two squares. He looks at the next fold the way a baker looks at a sleeping bun."
A note appeared on the coffee table, written in a careful paw-shaped smudge. Warmth is issued one check at a time. Folds that still dream should not be tapped before the kettle sings. A square that hurries finds the sun elsewhere and a ticket that waits.
The next morning the same man came back with the same cup and watched the same cat snip the same quiet number. He said the blanket looked a little goldener, and that the neighboring fold had been allowed to sleep until tea.