One Who Does Not Sleep

The city is still as dark as ebony when I begin my deliveries. I lace my boots and take up the rough satchel passed down from my gran. Legends say it's woven from time itself and lined with a curse from the world's first sunrise, but I've always thought it felt a lot like the silky wool of the ancient pet sheep Gran had kept in her little hut near the city's eastern gate. The sheep's name was Sunrise, so maybe folks were just confused. When I was younger, I asked once, and Gran had only...