The Hour He Always Keeps

There is a tower behind him with his name on it, in the way that towers accumulate names, slowly, without ceremony, because someone has to live somewhere and a man like this tends toward high places and stone walls and windows that face every direction at once. He doesn't go in yet. He never goes in yet, at this hour.

This is the hour for standing on the rock and watching the moon clear the clouds and remembering that the world is very old and still mostly intact, which is rarer than it sounds and worth noting when the stars are out. The staff glows because it always glows. He stopped noticing years ago.

Whatever needs deciding will wait until morning. The tower knows this. So does the moon.