By late morning the yarn shop had a traffic problem of the gentlest kind. Little balls of wool, each wearing a courtyard guidebook no bigger than a postage stamp, rolled themselves toward the rocking chair by the window and paused at the needles as if at a front door.
The shopkeeper said the maps were for courtesy, not navigation. “The gray ball and the lemon ball both wanted Tuesday,” she explained, tucking a spare needle into its cup. “Now they knock and ask if the next row is free. The needles nod when they have room.”
In the thank-you book by the till, a neighbor had written: “My scarf began with two polite taps. It still smells like the sunny window.” The rocking chair creaked once, which the shop took as a reservation for sleeves.