By midmorning the Ferris wheel had set out a tray of thimble cups, one for each cabin. The first riders found theirs already warm. At the highest pause the cloud leaned in, the china made a tiny sound, and only then did the cabin dip its chin toward the square and begin the gentle way down.
We asked the attendant who winds the tickets. "They used to rush the view," he said, wiping a saucer on his sleeve. "Now they wait for the cloud. If it is still pouring, we hold the cabin an extra breath. The square likes a proper toast before anyone comes back to earth."
A neighbor claimed the wheel had opened a cafe in the sky. By evening it was only the same polite circuit: a cup, a clink, a nod to the benches, and the whole ride smelling faintly of tea and weather.