The Square

THE SQUARE — Everything in town passes through here eventually, whether it means to or not. The old fountain runs day and night; Nib "improved" the pump last spring, so every seventh bucket it plays half a tune nobody asked for and can't be switched off. Around it the cobbles hold the shape of a hundred years of boots. The chalk noticeboard is the town's nervous system: market prices, a lost-goat notice, and — in a hand that reappears every few weeks — "WHEN'S THE BRIDGE GETTING FIXED?" Nobody's confessed to writing it. Fig the carpenter walks past it a little too quickly.

By morning Otto's already claimed the good bench, narrating arrivals to anyone within earshot, while June drifts through with her notebook pretending she isn't listening. Old Ben sits by the fountain most afternoons — "a well-informed piece of furniture," he calls himself — and if you want to know anything true about this place, you sit down beside him and wait. Word to the wise: don't eat here. The seagulls have a system, they have patience, and they once watched Kiko lose an entire sandwich mid-sentence without breaking his sales pitch. When Cori's ship is in, her strange crates pile up right by the fountain, and the whole square leans in a little closer.