The kitchen drawer waited until the kettle had finished its first polite sigh. Then the cookie cutters laid out tiny outlines for the stars, as if a tailor had arrived before breakfast and asked the dough to stand still for a fitting.
We asked at the kiosk by the corner bakery. "Neighbors said the stars were being measured for winter coats," a man with powdered sugar on his sleeve told us. "It was only courtesy. You greet the dough, you nod to the tray, and nobody hurries the crumb next door."
The baker pinned a note to the oven door: guests may be cut one at a time, and the neighboring star is not in a hurry. By dusk the last outline wore a dusting of sugar, the parchment napkins sat in a pale stack, and the tray gave the drawer a nod that meant closing time.
A day later the same stars came back as a polite row of cookies. They sat through one whole turn of the queue, then went home looking as if the kitchen had invited them to stay for tea.