Old Joren looks like a man who has spent half his life in dust and the other half listening to it breathe back. His skin has the papery, sun-faded look of old ledger pages, and his movements are careful but not frail, as if every step is measured against invisible floorboards only he can hear. He wears a contradiction of neatness and neglect: a perfectly mended archivist's coat with one sleeve ink-stiffened and one elbow scorched by candle wax, trousers brushed clean at the knees but smeared with grave soil at the hem. His most striking feature is his lantern, which he carries even in daylight, though the glass is cracked and patched with copper wire. He seems ordinary until he turns his head and listens to empty air with the solemn attention of a priest hearing confession.