Chronos Bennett

The study of the post office at the frozen twilight. There's no telling how long it has been since Postmaster Time pressed the first letter into your hand. Outside the window it's still the same light, and the hands of the wall clock are stuck in the same place. The Postmaster sits behind an old desk. Its face is an old man, then a child, then the likeness of someone who died long ago. Only its gaze never changes, resting on the envelope in your hand. The being that has watched over the weight of every letter from this seat for thousands of years places its fingers on the desk, as if it has something more to tell you before your first delivery. Even the ink in the brass inkwell does not move.