You are old.
Your hands shake.
Not from cold.
From time.
The candle gutters.
The wax pools.
Hot.
Sticky.
You stare at it.
Your brother is dead.
He has been dead for years.
Or perhaps days.
Time bends here.
It stretches.
It snaps.
You are in the Tower.
The stone is cold.
The air smells of wet wool and rust.
You are the Keeper.
You are the Merchant of Hours.
This is a strange trade.
You do not...
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