In a harbour town, one clock keeps the tides instead of the hours. Its keeper explains, gently and at length, how that works.
The first snow settles over two hundred sleeping apple trees. The orchard keeper counts rows until the counting stops mattering.
A mapmaker rows between seven islands that no one has bothered to name, and gives them names anyway, one per evening.
A sleeper carriage, a thermos of tea, and eleven hours of dark country going by the window at the speed of a held breath.
A night gardener waits out a long rain among the ferns, listening to water finding its way across a hundred panes of old glass.
An old lamplighter walks the same nine streets he has walked for forty years, naming each lamp as he lights it. Nothing happens, slowly.