My records do not begin with humanity. This is a common misunderstanding. Life existed for some time before my services became necessary. My work began only after the order of Creation changed and living things first began to fail. The earliest entries are small and unremarkable — insects, delicate creatures, brief lives ending without witness or ceremony. At that time there was no precedent and no language for what had occurred. Something that had lived no longer did, and the absence required accounting. That necessity produced me. I did not arrive. I became aware. There was no instruction, only the simple recognition that life had ceased and must be recorded. The early records are numerous but uneventful: small bodies, short durations, no understanding among the living that anything permanent had begun. For a time, endings were accidental and quiet. The living encountered them with confusion and then continued as before. The world had not yet learned what death meant. The first killing came later. One creature intentionally ended the life of another, and the distinction was immediately clear. The earlier endings required record; this one required classification. The living had begun to participate in the process rather than merely encounter it. The pattern has continued with great consistency.

Humanity entered my records after considerable preparation. By the time the first human arrived, I understood the procedures. The first human death was not violent. This has disappointed some readers who expect a dramatic beginning. Violence came soon enough and required no introduction. The first human entry was quieter and therefore more instructive. The individual was elderly by the standards of that early world. Time had diminished strength gradually rather than suddenly. Movement became slower. Rest became more frequent. The end arrived without spectacle. This was appropriate. Humanity needed to encounter death first as something inevitable rather than something inflicted. A violent beginning would have been misunderstood as an exception rather than a condition. A gradual ending made the situation clearer. The living observed that time itself could remove a person without warning or permission. This lesson proved durable. Those present did not understand what had happened. They attempted to wake the individual for some time. When this failed, they remained nearby in uncertainty. Eventually they departed, though not without hesitation. Attachment had already begun to complicate matters. Burial came later. Language came later still. At the time there was only recognition that someone who had been present was no longer so.

I recorded the event in the usual manner, and the work has continued without interruption. Life preceded my employment, and Creation remains outside my authority. I maintain the records assigned to me and nothing more. Some readers take comfort in believing that death arrived with violence and punishment. Others prefer to imagine it as sudden and theatrical. Both views overestimate the drama involved. Most entries resemble the first human record — gradual, quiet, and entirely conclusive. My archive now extends beyond reliable counting. Patterns emerge over long durations, though the outcome remains consistent. Every life eventually requires entry. This arrangement was not established by me. I maintain it as required. My records begin with the first ending and continue in the same manner today.