We asked at the kiosk on Maple Street whether the new coats were real. Mrs. Pell said she had watched a waltz step out of a cherry-wood lid, button a thimble-sized collar, and nod to the shop cat before drifting across the counter.
The shopkeeper keeps a tray of tiny overcoats beside the winding key. A tune that has been sleeping under the lid, he explained, always feels the draft of the room. He winds each box once, waits for the first note to look around, then offers the coat with two fingers. After that the melody walks a little slower, as if it had somewhere kind to be.
By evening the cat on the windowsill had received seventeen bows and one very small encore. Neighbors claim the lullaby now leaves a little warmth on the glass, like a guest who remembered to say thank you.