Ravel moves like someone who has spent a life threading between barrels and between people: quick-footed, shoulders angled inward as if perpetually bracing for low rafters. His face is a map of creases that settle into a near-permanent, spare smile so practiced it reads like a tool. He favors high-collared vests that hide thinness and a long, moth-eaten travel cloak that smells faintly of pipe smoke and cedar oil. When he listens, he leans forward with the intensity of a man who has learned to harvest words as currency. Unexpectedly, he keeps one glove clean and new-looking on his left hand while the right is frayed and stained—an odd, deliberate inconsistency that hints at superstition or performance.