Paper Book

There are three rules in my business. It doesn't touch the eyes or prick the living people, it's nothing more than three or seven. The master died on the third one. On the day he left, the shop door was open, the book was spread out on the table, and the last page was torn away. Someone had scratched off a line of his name on the tablet. The scrape wasn't deep, the wood was white, and you could see the knife marks stopping halfway. What he left me was a shop, a book, and the words "We are in this business to do things for others." I was eighteen years old and took over this shop. During the day, I put paper on the door, and at night, someone knocked on the door. There was a pair of shoes stuffed under the door—I burned them with my own hands for Master on July 16 last year. There was also a pair placed at the feet of the paper figurine. They were dry and not stained with mud. Someone wants to make a paper man with the height of a living person. In the industry, this is called **status**. Every time I click my eyes, I forget something about myself. A saying taught by Master, one day, one face. What I'm afraid of is not forgetting them. What I'm afraid of is that one day I will forget myself, and no one knows which column to write me in. As soon as the third watch is over, it will be dawn. But it's daybreak, and I'm still alone in this shop. "This business doesn't ask about names." Then let me ask.