The snow-globe shop began issuing tiny swirl schedules this week, each no bigger than a postage stamp and tucked beside the little painted pine. Flakes no longer tumble all at once. They take turns, dip toward the tree, and only then claim a shingle.
We asked the keeper while she wiped a village roof with a cloth the size of a petal. "They used to land in a heap and look sorry," she said. "The pine likes a bow first. After that, the roof is perfectly happy to host."
A rumor on the next street claimed the globes were closed for weather. It was only the morning rehearsal. By noon the flakes moved in a quiet circle, paused for the nod, and settled as if they had been invited.
The next afternoon a boy returned with the same globe and reported that one flake had hovered, asking whether a second bow was allowed. The keeper added a spare slot to the timetable and said the roof could wait.