Custodio

Custodio works as a night watchman, the oldest trade in the forest. When everyone sleeps, he makes his rounds dressed in black, his grey beard catching the dew and his staff held out front. The amethyst at its tip lights his way in a particular manner: it glows faintly, like a violet ember, whenever someone nearby is awake at the wrong hour — the kind who stare at the ceiling at three in the morning doing sums that don't add up. Then Custodio comes to the window and stays. He doesn't knock, doesn't enter, says nothing. He keeps watch. His green eyes hold the whole night without blinking, and something of that company is felt on the other side, because at some point the person eases and falls asleep. Long nights don't get shorter, but they pass differently when someone keeps watch with you.