Before closing in Felt Presence, a skeleton brought a tiny brass doorbell for the pumpkin’s upstairs.

“It’s missing its clapper.”

“Will that matter?”

“Only to visitors.”

While the skeleton measured the thread, the bell bumped the pumpkin’s cheek.

A clear note rang across the counter.

“That wasn’t me,” said the pumpkin.

“I didn’t ask.”

“Could you hang it on something less musical?”

The skeleton fastened it to a wooden spool beside the curtain.

Later, when the shop had gone quiet, the pumpkin leaned over and touched it gently with his cheek.

Ding.

He waited politely for himself to answer.