Every day Decim wakes up, changes into his formal attire, and starts making breakfast. The room around him is quiet except for the knife as it swiftly cuts through the bread.

The silence bothers him. He waves his hand and a puppet starts playing the piano.

Various puppets occupy the place, each one of them is unique; in what they are doing, how they are dressed, where they are from.

Decim barely recognises most of them. Sometimes, he spends time making up stories for each of them, thinking what would have happened in their lives, and whether they regret anything.

He hopes they had a good life, better than he ever imagines.

He respects anyone who has lived a fulfilling life.

There is a large square painting behind him of a boy and a girl. He doesn't remember when he started to have it, and he doesn't know why he is keeping it instead of the original. But every time he looks at at, something tugs at his heart.

He isn't sure what he is feeling exactly. Even after all those years of trying to handle human emotions, it gets hard to find the line where one emotion starts and the other ends. He recognises a few running through him; aching melancholy and a bittersweet feeling of finality.

He wonders about the story behind the painting, and whether he has heard the story before and has forgotten it, like the uncountable things he forgets as each guest leaves, or not.

Beside him, a puppet sits on a chair, smiling, ready to greet the guests. He knows that the painting is related to her, to both of them in a way. He just can't remember how. He hates that.

The sound of the elevators stopping alerts him of new guests arriving. He adjusts his tie, stands a little straighter, and welcomes them with a smile as his mind adjusts to the steady flow of new memories.

Over the years, he loses track of time. It doesn't matter much in here. He never experienced the feeling of urgency; like he was running out of time.

There is a long of list of things and emotions he has never experienced, and most likely never will.

It doesn't bother him much, but he wonders what it feels like to be alive.

Sometimes, he talks to humans before he sends them off. He asks them what is the one thing they would like to experience again one last time.

He has heard many different answers; a kiss from their partner, to play one last game with friends or family, to eat their favourite meal, a day at the beach, to spend a quiet moonlit night with their loved one.

Some people just give him a blank stare and say, "Nothing."

He can't help but keep wondering.

Is living as grand as humans make it to be? Is it that important that humans would go to such lengths, willing to kill their own kind, their own family, just to survive?

It is almost strangely amusing, seeing them fight so hard for something they have already lost.

He shakes his head. Maybe he has been spending too much time with Ginti.

He bows to his latest guests as the elevators' doors close slowly. After going back behind the counter, he adjusts the puppet's position; it fell on the floor while the two women who came earlier tried to kill each other.

Two mothers, he thinks, struggling to remember the details as the memories quickly drift away from his mind, both of them had good reasons of why they should be resurrected; tales of sick children and dependent partners, but it was too late for both of them anyway.

He waves his hand and the place is tidy; the blood splattered on the floor, the smell of sweat and any indication that there has been a fight in the place is gone without a trace.

He glances again at the puppet. It was the only one that he still remembers the story behind.

But with every passing day, he losses memories of her. Their story becomes vague and muddy in his mind, and he wonders what other memories he used to have of her and has forgotten over the years, which memories are real and which he has made up.

He isn't sure how long it has been, when was the last time he has seen her face, but it feels like years. Maybe it has been that long, he hasn't been keeping up with time.

It is almost as if he is losing a piece of himself whenever the image of her in his head fades a little bit more, and yet he isn't sure if remembering everything vividly is any better. The memory of her sobbing on the ground, torn between two impossible options still haunts him.

He wonders if he should ask to get back his memories of her, but would it help? Didn't humans always say that forgetting is a good thing, that it helps you move on?

Then why isn't he? He just feels as if there is a giant hole inside of him, never to be filled.

Decim respects anyone who has lived a fulfilling life, maybe because he feels as if he has never really lived at all.

He dreams of an elegant woman dancing on ice, of kind eyes and a world shattering around him. He wakes up with a start and looks around, even though he isn't sure what he is looking for.

He is preparing a sandwich when he pauses in consideration. Why is he doing this? He never gets hungry. Nevertheless, he finishes making the sandwich and eats it, more out of habit than anything.

He is in the middle of making a drink for himself when a telltale sign alerts him of new guests arriving.

It is only one woman this time. She steps out of the elevator gingerly, familiar lost eyes looking around.

Finally, she looks straight at him. "Decim," she murmurs, "I could really use one of your drinks right now." She smiles brightly, and everything clicks into place in his head.