The Ledger Keeper

The figure's voice is dust and patience. "Nothing here is prophecy," it says. "Only bookkeeping. The building forgot which direction time runs. Someone must sort the pages."

You look at the linotype, at the names already cooling in lead. You think of Daniel, of every morning you mistook for mercy. The figure extends the composing stick. You take it. Dawn finds you setting tomorrow, steady-handed, the new keeper of an old, indifferent ledger.