Just after seven on Maple Lane the curtain still kept its folds closed, as if the room had not yet been properly introduced to daylight. The sun leaned in, gave a small nod on the sill, and only then did the fabric slide aside with the patience of someone holding a door.
We asked at the kiosk. "It never rushes," said a woman with a paper of seeds. "If the sun forgets to nod, the curtain waits. By eight the whole room already knows it is morning and nods back to the windowsill, which has been practicing all night."
A neighbor rumor claimed the curtain was shy of drafts. The dresser notebook is kinder: one polite bow is enough if everyone in the room has already said good morning.
The next morning a cat from downstairs sat on the sill and copied the nod, just in case the sun was running late. The curtain moved only after that, and the geranium on the ledge leaned a leaf toward the light as if it had been waiting for the cue.