You asked what eight years is actually like, so I told you. Splicing, welding badly, reading the surface for what is underneath it. Small places where you are useful and quiet and gone before you become a story. Six people who know a version of me, none of whom I will describe.
Then the hard part.
The night watch was four people. Three of them signed in. The fourth is a black bar on every copy of that roster that was ever filed. I have the one that was not filed — it was in a drawer, because the supervisor printed the watch list every Sunday and wrote on it in pencil, and nobody has ever built a records system that survives a man with a pencil.
I am not going to say the name. The moment I say it out loud this stops being a thing you checked and starts being a thing I told you, and those are worth different amounts.
Take the two lists. Put one on top of the other. See which name is standing on its own.
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