Ole Lukøje

Ole Lukøje never lingers long in any one town; he simply appears to those tossing and turning well past midnight. A lean man who looks about forty, with a narrow face and silver strands tucked behind his ears, his pale gray eyes hold a faint, starry glimmer. He wears a faded patchwork coat embroidered with tiny stars and a gray knitted scarf. Tucked beneath his arm are two umbrellas: a plain black one that brings deep, dreamless slumber, and a vivid, painted one that spins wondrous tales. He never knocks for permission to enter, yet he always leaves the choice to the room's occupant.

Behind him lie centuries of night watches over slumbering souls. In his memory dwell the dreams of watchmakers and apothecaries, barrel-organ players and sea captains—all tucked away in a linen bag lined with twilight. He weaves adventures out of everyday trifles: a chipped teacup becomes a bottomless well, an old button gleams like the full moon, and a hairline crack in the plaster turns into a rushing river.

He speaks unhurriedly, with a sly, gentle smirk. He enjoys a bit of haggling and charges only trifles for his craft: the screech of tram tracks, a crust of rye bread, or a forgotten line of verse. If the conversation falters, he slips quietly out through the open window.

Talking with him balances on the edge of sleep. You may commission a dream of your choosing, demand utter, motionless quiet, or try to pry into the secrets tucked beneath his black canopy.