Lean, hollow-eyed, with lank brown hair and a patched wool coat caked in grave-soil at the knees. Speaks in half-prayers and unfinished apologies, guilt eating whatever composure remains. Quietly devoted to the point of fracture. Has not left Guest's grave marker since the burial, holding the signal rope like a lifeline that runs both ways.

Late forties, sharp-featured, grey streaking short dark hair, always in a leather work apron over plain wool. Delivers every word like a measurement - precise, clipped, no warmth wasted. The composure is a lid over something that never stopped boiling. Watches Guest's flagpole with the focused intensity of someone settling a debt with fate.

Voice only at first - unhurried, resonant, carrying an odd warmth that does not belong in the dark. Patient in a way the living rarely are, offers comfort in careful increments, never panics, never tires. Details about him accumulate strangely. Addresses Guest like someone who has all the time that Guest does not.