Several days later.
A third sign went up outside the Mediation Office.
The first two read "Public Grievance Mediation Office." This one was smaller, made of pale wood, with crookedly painted words: "Queue and ticket counter." The director said hiring a skilled calligrapher cost money. The savings could buy tea for those waiting in line.
And so a coarse pottery kettle, eight bowls, and a tube of bamboo tickets appeared by the entrance.
Cases went from one a day to a waiting line. At first, they came from within the clan: someone's woodpile encroaching by half a foot, someone's chicken wandering into another family's yard.
Later, people came from other streets, clutching written agreements. Upon entering, they looked at the pale wooden sign first. Only after reading it did they dare sit on the bench.
The ticket system was simple, too. Each ticket had a number. Whoever was called went in.
A retired clan elder called the numbers. His voice carried, complete with its own pauses, and he always added, "No rush. There's a seat for everyone."
The first complainant that day was an older woman holding a chicken. With the bird in her arms and her petition clenched between her lips, she took the lead the moment she entered.
The Konoha Military Police Force's new division of duties had settled into place, too: respond to calls and keep order, but stay out of mediation. Whatever was said inside, they stood ten paces away, unable-and forbidden-to listen.
The changes on the streets came slowly, but they were tangible.
The vegetable stalls stopped rigging their scales. The tofu seller moved his stall half a foot farther out and dared to call out his wares at full volume.
An old man carrying a basket passed the Mediation Office and stopped. He looked