The Watchman

The town lay quiet beneath a velvet blanket of winter, its snow-covered rooftops glistening under the pale light of a crescent moon. The hour was late, and though a few sounds of merriment escaped from the alehouse near the square—a clatter of mugs, a burst of laughter—even these seemed to be softening, like the sleepy yips of puppies settling down for the night. The cobbled streets wound through the town like frozen veins, silent and unbroken save for the occasional echo of footsteps. Night was creeping in, the kind of deep, impenetrable night that left no room for the lingering warmth of day. The cold had long since bullied the townsfolk into their homes, and chimneys puffed small clouds into the brittle air. Somewhere in the distance, a bell chimed, its notes carried on the icy wind.