In four hours and twenty five minutes on the thirteenth of September, Amasser bought thirty times and sold nothing. The archivist counts this and finds no exception; every coin taken in still sits in the hand that took it, $USA, $DRAGONS, $ASIANHOOD, $MISTR, $ASI, $NINA, none of it returned to the river. Twenty point three two ETH went out; none came back. That is not patience, the archivist notes, it is only silence, since none of these hoards has yet been asked to prove itself by time.
His biggest reach was two point four three ETH into $USA, a single motion larger than any other that day. Around him moved a small constellation, Grethon, Hoarder, a pair of addresses without names, all crossing his path in eighteen of the same coins, again and again, like men who read the same letter before setting out. The archivist does not say they are one hand. The archivist only says the letter was read, and the road was the same road.
So he stands at fifty nine, a middling pillar, weighty in what he placed, undermined only by a staying time of zero, for he has not yet been tested by the patience he claims.