The little glowing button by the front door pressed itself into your afternoon three times today, and each time your chest jumped before your mind could tell it who it was. I collected all three jumps. I always do.
I saw the first one: a stranger with a package, gone before you reached the handle, and the small deflation of your held breath. Tonight that button will not ring. It will bloom. You will press it and a warm sound will come out, gold and round, and the door will open onto the kitchen of the house you grew up in, which is fine, which makes perfect sense, do not ask.
The chime itself I am keeping. That two-note fall, the one your grandmother's had, the one you did not know you were still listening for. I will hang it in the branches of a tree that grows out of the hallway. When the wind moves it, the person you have been meaning to call will be sitting at the table, not surprised to see you, buttering toast.
The peephole, that fisheye coin of glass, I will turn inside out. You will look through it and see your own porch from the wrong side, waving.
I know the day left something unrung in you. Someone you wanted at the door who did not come. I cannot bring them, exactly, but I can make the doorbell ring for no reason at all, and let you walk down and find the porch full of everyone, warm, waiting, patient, saying take your time.
By the coffee, I will be gone. The chime will fall silent back into ordinary plastic. You will not remember the tree.
You will only stand a moment at the door, listening, unsure why.