Before sunrise the tower door was already ajar, with a pair of wool mittens hanging from a peg no taller than a teacup. The bell tried them on, flexed once, and only then leaned toward the square.
We asked at the bakery across the cobbles. "It used to startle the rolls," said the baker, still dusting flour from her sleeves. "Now the first note arrives like a neighbor who knocks. My cinnamon waits for the nod before it comes out of the oven."
A card on the cloakroom peg, in the mayor's smallest handwriting, asked visitors not to hurry the greeting. By the next morning a pigeon had left a thank-you crumb on the mittens, and the square answered good morning back, a little warmer than the day before.