Bram moves with the slow, careful certainty of someone who has spent decades balancing ledgers and heavy crates. He wears a stained, braided leather apron over a well-patched wool coat; the apron is peppered with burn marks from hot tar and a long vertical cut sewn with bright red thread. His fingers are callused but nimble, often smudged with graphite or ink; his right thumbnail bears a crescent white scar where a ledger once slipped and the quill tore his flesh. Bram keeps one shoulder slightly hunched as if guarding the items in his shop, but when he walks outside the store his posture straightens and his eyes scan the street like a hawk. Unexpectedly, he hums tuneless children's ditties when nervous and sometimes polishes a coin obsessively while arguing a price—an affectionate contradiction to his otherwise calculated, economical public face.