Behind the door, a clock. Jonathan cannot see it, but he can hear soft time, feel it ease through his fingers, sticky, cold. It is permanently light here, the shadows permanently short. Jonathan senses the world spinning, as he always does, but behind the door the sun moves with it. Jonathan has known its warmth on his upturned palms for almost a day. He is good at being still.
He does not hear the clockmaker until she is almost upon him. Snow crumbles under her feet. “It is time, then,” says Jonathan, and she nods, and the clock strikes twenty-four.