At noon, Thibault took him to the stoop to monitor the world for violations of common sense. "New rule," Thibault said, leaning on the rail. "If a grown-up runs, go the opposite direction unless it's Mama."
"Why?"
"Most grown-ups only run when they're late or wrong."
A telegraph boy trotted past with purpose. They let him keep it.
Back upstairs, the workshop became a proving ground. Thibault set three coins across the floor at unequal distances. "Cross without clinking. If one wobbles, start over."
First attempt: failure on coin two, a whisper of metal. Restart. Second: success, but Thomas held his breath too long—he counted that as failure and began again. Third: perfect. Lungs behaved like citizens, not trainees.
"You're the most annoying kind of little brother," Thibault said.
"The surviving kind?"
"That one."
Afternoon slid into soft gray, the kind that suggests lamps without demanding them. The old chalk lady appeared at the mouth of the street, didn't enter, but drew a small sign on the curb—a triangle with a dot—then shuffled on. The mark dried in the mist. Thomas felt, inexplicably, counted and safer.
[SEQ] Hint — Rooftop corners steady after the tenth bell.
[SEQ] Tags: Height, Night → Bind odds ↑
He stored the hint in the pocket where he kept "future courage."
Evening brought neighbors. Monsieur Ravel and his violin (better when sad). Madame Doré with a pie that "slipped out of the oven on its own." Children drew chalk borders and argued about passports. Thomas added a border no one noticed and watched two older boys fail to cross it politely. Satisfying.
Patricia hummed four notes and a pause while she mended. On the third repetition she lingered a hair—the way people do when they think about fathers and doors. Thomas gave the traitor board an extra second before he passed. Respect is free and pays well.
He ended where he began: cork steady, lamp sure, rug remembering his shape. A ledger line appeared he hadn't expected.
[SEQ] Ledger — Kept others' rhythms: +1 Credit (minor).
The late watchman's lantern ghosted past the shutters, painting ribs on the wall. From bed, Thomas matched the boots—third brick from the curb, every fourth step. Patterns are doors; doors are favors waiting to be asked.
Sleep tried him on like a coat. He let it fit.
In the small hours he woke once to the room testing its edges. He stood in the doorway and practiced Stillness until the chalk line relaxed. He didn't cross it. Contracts matter, even unsigned ones.
Before dawn he pressed a tiny stay into the lamp's skirt again—not mastery, just manners. The glass rewarded him by pretending it had chosen steadiness itself.
He slept, and the house held his place for morning.