By late morning the pie on the second-floor sill had already packed a ribbon of steam. The curtain gave a small nod, and the steam stepped down to the street as if it had a short errand and a longer courtesy.
We asked at the kiosk. "It never hurries," said a woman with a paper bag of pears. "It greets the baker's window first, then the bench, then the brim of my hat. By the time it reaches the corner, the whole block knows tea is near."
A rumor went around that the steam was hunting a lost cinnamon stick. The baker's notebook under the counter has a kinder version: the steam only wanted to show the neighbors that the crust was doing well, then come home.
By tea the ribbon was back under the crust, a little softer. The next afternoon a boy from the next house stood under the same window with an empty cup, just in case the steam felt like visiting twice.