By nine the marble shop had already dusted the counter. The glass spheres lined up at the lip of their tiny grooves, rolled in a whisper, and waited for the wooden pocket to nod before they stopped for exactly one bow.
We asked at the kiosk across the street. "They used to rattle," said the man with the paper bag. "Now each one takes a lane like a guest, and the pocket keeps a guest list. If you listen, you can hear the hello before the click."
A neighbor swore the marbles were racing. By the next afternoon they were only practicing manners: one roll, one nod, one still place in the wood. The geranium on the sill leaned in to watch, and nobody asked them to go faster.