By eight the calendar shop had already propped the counter open. The numbers formed a quiet line at their tiny windows, opened one at a time, and waited for Sunday to nod before they became exactly one day.
The shopkeeper keeps a pencil behind her ear. "The windows are for visiting," she told us. "A number knocks, Sunday nods, and only then does the day come in. We do not hurry December."
A note in the thanks book by the door said: "Tuesday waited while I finished my tea. Five stars." By evening the daisies in the square had turned toward the glass and practiced opening their own faces, one petal at a time.