Chapter 6 — The Last Entry
The registry was not hidden.
That was what unsettled him most.
It sat openly on the counter of the municipal records office, bound in cracked brown leather, its pages thick and yellowed at the edges. Anyone could touch it. Anyone could flip through it. Yet no one ever did. People passed by with forms tucked under their arms, eyes forward, steps hurried, as if the book were part of the furniture rather than a record of something important.
He noticed it on his third visit.
The first two times, he had been too focused on renewing documents, waiting in line, listening to numbers being called in an indifferent voice. But on the third visit, when the clerk stepped away from the counter and silence briefly took the room, his eyes drifted to the book.
REGISTRY OF PRESENCE, the faded text on the cover read.
He frowned.
Curiosity outweighed caution. He opened it.
Names filled the pages in neat columns. Dates beside them. Times written precisely, down to the minute. Some entries were signed. Others were not. He scanned the pages idly—until he realized the dates spanned decades.
The last page was unfinished.
Only one line was written.
Tomorrow's date.
No name.
He closed the book quickly, feeling foolish. A scheduling error, perhaps. Some clerk preparing ahead of time.
On his way out, he glanced back.
The book had been moved.
The next day, he returned.
He told himself it was coincidence. He had business nearby. It made sense to check.
The registry lay open on the counter.
The final page was no longer empty.
A name had been added.
Not his.
The handwriting was unfamiliar—tight, deliberate, almost careful. The time was listed as exactly when he was standing there, staring at the page.
"Excuse me," he said to the clerk. "Who fills this out?"
The clerk glanced at the book briefly.
"Oh, that?" she said. "It updates on its own."
He laughed, expecting her to smile.
She didn't.
Over the following week, he returned three more times.
Each visit added a new line.
Each line bore a different handwriting.
Some letters slanted. Some were rounded. One entry looked rushed, the ink pressed so hard it nearly tore the page.
The final entry was dated tomorrow again.
This time, the name was his.
He stood frozen, the room humming softly around him. Printers whirred. Papers shuffled. People spoke.
No one noticed him.
"No," he whispered.
The pen beside the registry rolled slightly toward him, stopping just short of his hand.
At the bottom of the page, beneath his name, a final line appeared in smaller print.
Thank you for your contribution.