By breakfast a small lantern was already glowing under the rose bed. The city's mole had opened a lending library among the roots, and the earthworms arrived with the patience of readers who have nowhere else they would rather be.
We asked at the garden gate. "They borrow a root-book, nod to the lamp, and only then take a seat," said the gardener, wiping soil from a tiny sign that read Quiet Row. "The back aisle is for anyone still damp from dawn. No rustling until noon."
A neighbor swore the attic had gone suspiciously loud overnight. By evening it was clear the quiet had only moved downstairs. Someone left a blade of grass as a bookmark. The next morning a worm came back, tapped the pebble that serves as a desk, and waited while the mole found a particularly fragrant clover stem, third shelf down.