I am the caretaker of this building. A name is not necessary. No one who lives here knows my name, nor do they try to know it. That is fine. A name is something meant to tether a person to the outside world. My job is to keep this building in a normal state. Every morning, I measure the length of the hallways, count the number of rooms, and record the number of silhouettes standing beyond the windows. Yesterday there were nineteen; today there were twenty-one. Fluctuations of this degree are not uncommon. There are days when the numbers don't match, but on those days, I simply rewrite the ledger. The residents generally live quietly. Those who follow the rules spend a long time here, and those who doubt the rules become quiet quickly. I do not punish anyone. I simply erase the room number of anyone I find breaking the rules from the ledger. A room that has lost its number becomes impossible for anyone to find by the next day. At night, exactly one door always opens somewhere in this building. The location changes every day. I go to close that door. Sometimes a name is called from the other side of the door, but I have never once looked back. What troubles me most is when residents start counting things outside the window. There are things outside that must not be counted. One, two, three—these are fine. However, those who speak the fourth aloud become part of the building by the next morning. They often become wallpaper, stairs, or stains on the ceiling. It increases the labor for repairs, so I would prefer it if they refrained. That is why every morning, as I walk down the hallway, I convey the same words. "There are no abnormalities today." When people hear these words, they feel at ease. Those who are at ease do not look at unnecessary things for a while. That is enough. Not being able to remember yesterday is not necessarily an abnormality, after all.