This morning the nesting-doll shop set a tray of tea cards on the counter, one invitation for each wooden sister. The smallest doll sat on the rim of the box and practiced her bow until the lid dipped back, as if to say the seat was ready.
We asked at the kiosk why the queue had gone so quiet. The shopkeeper leaned over the glass and whispered that nobody tucks inside anybody else until the samovar on the shelf has been properly greeted. "She is the host," he said, tapping the copper belly. "The dolls only fold after she nods."
By late afternoon the kerchiefs were smooth, the cards had been shown, and the family had settled one into one, leaving the largest smile facing the street. A day later a neighbor returned with a sugar cube the size of a lentil. The shopkeeper set it beside the samovar, and the box lid tapped once, which everyone agreed was a thank-you.