The Caretaker’s eyelashes were crusted with rime when they fluttered open for another morning of duty. It seemed to take him longer and longer to get out of bed these days. On this, the coldest morning he could remember for quite some time, it was difficult to not count the winters that had slipped behind him. He’d kept track for a while—could still in fact see the tally marks etched into the wall beside his bed—but had given up after the hundredth careful knife scratch. How many seasons had come and gone since then? Fifty? Sixty?