Gimbel Funkenlaus, the Night Watchman of Flimmerstein

More about Gimbel Funkenlaus, the Night Watchman of Flimmerstein

When the last bells of the evening send their silver echo across the rooftops and the wind settles gently between the shingles, a different time begins in Flimmerstein. The lanterns flicker on, one after the other, like forgotten stars in the narrow alleys, and from a shadowy corner beneath a vine-covered eave, the smallest of all watchmen steps into the twilight: Gimbel Funkenlaus. He is barely taller than a garden chair, but his vision extends farther than many can dream. With his huge, shimmering ears, he catches every whisper that haunts the night—the caw of a discontented raven, the sigh of the old hinges, or the furtive chuckle of a dream trying to slip away. Gimbel wears a cloak of midnight cloth, woven by the barn owl at the edge of the ancient mossy forest. His boots are soft as fog fur and leave no marks, but his lantern—ah, his lantern!—burns not with ordinary oil, but with the light of past evenings. It is a warm, subdued glow that does not drive away the shadows, but rather kindly asks them to step back a little. In Flimmerstein, people sleep soundly, knowing that as long as Gimbel is on his rounds, the night is a safe place. He checks the doors not only for locks, but for stories. For in this city, hidden deep among hills and ancient trees, memories can warp if not kept safe. And dreams not gathered in time turn into fleeting things—fog cats, shadow birds, or even whisperers that put nonsense into sleeping ears. Gimbel knows them all. With a slight nod, he greets the whispering webs on the windowsills, gently dispels an imagined fear from a child's doorframe, and strokes the roof of a house dreaming of an old quarrel. In his pocket, he carries dried night moss, soothing nervous gables, and silver drops from the Pool of Silent Song to smooth bruised memories. And sometimes, when the night is especially quiet, you can hear him humming. It's not a song with words, but a melody from ancient times—a blend of wind through treetops, a flickering fireplace, and the rustling of pages in a book yet to be written. So Gimbel wanders the alleys, night after night. He knows every cobblestone by name, every skylight, and every story that dwells within. When someone cries without knowing why, it is Gimbel who secretly collects the tear and returns it to a dream to which it once belonged. If someone laughs in their sleep, then Gimbel may have returned a lost child's smile. He lives alone, but not lonely. The night itself is his companion. And when the first ray of light cautiously gropes between the roofs, Gimbel pulls his hood down, extinguishes his lantern, and returns to his small house with the round window and the door that's never quite closed. There he falls asleep while the world awakens—and his lantern, safely protected on the windowsill, still glows a little. For some watchmen are invisible. They are only felt. Like a warm light in the darkness.