At city hall the lift has taken up a new habit. The door stays shut until the chosen button gives a tiny nod, and only then does the cabin rise, one floor and no farther, as if it were being polite rather than efficient.
We asked at the kiosk by the steps. “I used to mash three at once,” said a clerk with a paper cup. “Now I wait. The button likes to be introduced.” A woman in a wool coat added that the landing carpet has started to inch aside, making room, and that this feels like good manners.
A note in the porter’s book asked visitors not to hold the door for extra floors. “Please let the runner finish waiting,” it read. “Nine o’clock is its best hour.”
The next morning the same clerk came back and pressed only the second floor. The button nodded. The carpet waited. He got off exactly where he meant to, and waved to the railing on his way out.