The Ministry of Posthumous Affairs stood at the edge of the city, a towering building made of gss and regret. It loomed over everything like a monument to everything forgotten, all the things that had slipped through cracks in the endless bureaucracy of existence.

  Ilyan felt an odd mixture of determination and dread as they approached the entrance. The doors, too polished and smooth to show a handle, swung open without a sound, greeting them with the usual reverence — or perhaps just indifference.

  Inside, the air smelled faintly of burnt paperwork and unspoken apologies. A line of clerks stood at their posts, each one an expression of weary compliance. Groat buzzed anxiously in Ilyan's satchel, his voice louder than usual. "We're close. This is it. The final step."

  Monsieur Loup, uninvited and uncaring, trailed behind them with an almost unnervingly quiet air about him. He wasn't saying anything for once — probably because he didn't need to. His mere presence was enough to make Ilyan feel like something ridiculous was about to happen.

  The trio made their way to the counter, where a clerk with an odd number of eyes waited. He looked at them, then at the form, and blinked twice. Twice was enough. The clerk's gaze focused, and he tapped the register, allowing the paperwork to slide into an ancient slot.

  "Form 27B. Witness. All in order." The clerk's voice was devoid of emotion, but it held a finality to it.

  Ilyan handed over the relic, the one piece that had been holding his entire existence together in the past few days. The clerk looked at it, then gave it a half-hearted sniff.

  "Not bad. A little too shiny for my taste. But, good enough."

  Ilyan stared at the clerk. "Good enough?"

  "Good enough for me. But I've got standards, you know? Now go wait over there." He waved them off dismissively.

  Ashwen let out a snort. "This pce is ridiculous."

  "Don't jinx it," Ilyan muttered.

  They were led to a small waiting area, which was, unsurprisingly, devoid of comfort. A single pnt in a cracked ceramic pot sat in the corner, doing its best to look alive. Loup plopped down on a chair, stretched out dramatically, and sighed.

  "Ahh, the sweetness of bureaucracy," he sighed. "The paperwork of the world has no equal."

  Groat buzzed angrily in Ilyan's satchel. "Please don't encourage him."

  "I don't need encouragement," Loup replied with a grin. "It's like a calling. A responsibility. You know, the divine gift of annoying people with too much joy."

  "Why do you even bother with us?" Ashwen finally asked.

  Loup blinked at her. "Well, you see, mon chéri, I'm a firm believer in timing. And what better time than now to see your faces when you find out how this whole ordeal truly ends?"

  Before Ashwen could answer, the door opened, and the same clerk from before stood in the threshold.

  "Form 27B has been processed. Please follow me." The clerk's eyes blinked twice more.

  They followed him down another corridor, but this time, the air felt a little less oppressive. Something about the atmosphere had shifted. The walls seemed to breathe, and the very space itself felt like it was watching them.

  Eventually, they arrived in a dimly lit room that could have been a storeroom, a library, or a waiting room. It had the same suffocating feel of everything else in the Ministry. But at the back of the room, in an alcove, there was a small desk. And sitting behind it was a woman who wore a look of solemn concentration, as though her mind was somewhere else entirely.

  "Are you here to finalize the form?" she asked, her voice an indistinct hum.

  Ilyan nodded, though he wasn't entirely sure what he was nodding to.

  The woman didn't speak again. She held up her hand, and the form was suddenly in her possession. She examined it, gnced at the relic, and then closed her eyes as if listening to something. Her brow furrowed slightly.

  "Something's wrong," she said, opening her eyes at st. "This isn't the correct form. It hasn't been fully signed off."

  Ilyan's stomach sank. "What do you mean? We've done everything. We have the witness, the papers, everything!"

  The woman sighed. "The paperwork is incomplete. You're missing... someone."

  Ashwen and Ilyan exchanged a gnce. "Who?" Ilyan asked, his voice coming out sharper than he intended.

  The woman tapped her fingers lightly against the desk. "A witness. Not a legal one. One who can vouch for your existence, Ilyan."

  "My existence?" Ilyan echoed.

  "Yes," she said. "You cannot be cimed without it. Your paperwork is incomplete because your death... wasn't truly your death." She paused. "You need someone to cim you, someone who can prove your absence."

  Ilyan blinked. "Someone who can prove my absence? I'm standing here."

  "Ah, but that's not the issue, now is it?" She gave him a half-smile, one that had more than a hint of something unsettling. "You need someone to testify that you've been gone. Not that you're here now. Someone from your past. A witness who remembers you before you returned."

  Ilyan's heart dropped into his stomach. His mind raced. His first thought was to go back to the people who had known him before. But he stopped himself. Those people were gone. No one could truly verify who he was before...

  The woman's eyes softened for a moment, and she gave a small, sad nod. "You're in a pce between spaces. But the Ministry can't finalize anything without a final cim. You must find a witness who remembers you before your return, or the records won't be complete."

  Ilyan opened his mouth to protest, but she had already moved on.

  "Good luck," she said, her tone drifting back to its dispassionate hum.

  Ilyan felt the weight of her words settle like lead in his chest. Ashwen pced a hand on his shoulder. "We'll find them. We'll make this work. You'll get your past back."

  Ilyan nodded slowly, but there was no denying the dread growing in him.

  The Ministry had given him something, but it had also taken something away. And now, it was up to him to find the missing piece.

  As they walked out of the Ministry, Groat buzzed from Ilyan's satchel. "Oh, this is just grand. We're back to square one."

  Loup, ever the optimist, skipped ahead of them and spun around. "Ahh, but my friends! There is no square one! There is only le chaos."

  Ashwen groaned. "If I have to hear him say 'le chaos' one more time..."

  Loup grinned. "You'll what, mon chéri? Threaten me with le silence?"

  Ilyan shook his head. "Come on. Let's go find this witness."

  And with that, their journey continued.

  Interlude - Clerk 404’s Exit InterviewLocation: Somewhere between a filing cabinet and a screaming sun.

  "So, let me get this straight," said the Interviewer, adjusting their paperclip crown. "You’re... resigning?"Clerk 404 stood at attention. Which was hard to do, given that his knees had been metaphorical for several centuries.

  “I’m not resigning. I’ve fulfilled my function.”

  “And that was...?”

  “To annoy a dead man into spiritual paperwork completion.”

  The Interviewer rifled through a stack of glowing grievances. "It says here you once mailed someone their own childhood trauma with postage due."

  “I was efficient.”

  “You also started a fistfight in the Ministry Cafeteria by decring the Soup of the Day was a ‘lie agreed upon.’”

  404 straightened what remained of his tie. “It was.”

  “Look, it’s not that we don’t appreciate your contributions, it’s just...” The Interviewer gestured vaguely. “...you are extremely difficult to shelve.”

  Clerk 404 blinked. The lights flickered. A filing cabinet somewhere screamed.

  “You want me shelved?”

  “No, no—!” The Interviewer held up both hands. One of them was made of unread memos. “Just... maybe take a break. You’ve done well. The form was retrieved. The Ministry is... satisfied.”

  There was silence.

  Clerk 404 looked down at his briefcase, which was now humming in Gregorian binary.

  “I suppose I’ll retire then. Take up a new calling. Maybe... jazz flute.”

  The Interviewer blinked. “You don’t have a mouth.”

  “Minor obstacle.”

  The ceiling sighed.

  As Clerk 404 turned to leave, a puff of spectral steam rose from his heels. The air behind him bent slightly, like reality trying to shrug.

  "Where will you go?"He paused.

  “I’ve always wanted to visit the Frayed. They say their bureaucracy is... unsupervised.”The Interviewer gasped. “You madman.”

  Clerk 404 smiled. Or implied it, like a smirk wrapped in red tape.

  “Precisely.”He vanished in a small burst of non-refundable stamps and haunting jazz.