#joe-lore

Well, you could say I fell head over heels for her. Literally.

She was sitting there, minding her own business, reading the broadsheets, and I tripped over the curb and spilled her bag everywhere.

Ever the fiery woman, she demanded I purchase her a drink to make it up to her. The rest is history!

At night, I think I see their faces in the mists, watching with pleading eyes. Through the rush of the automobiles and shuffling feet, I hear their voices, calling my name, begging for my help. The number follows me. Everywhere I go, it's there. Teasing me. Goading me. On my punch card. In the broadsheets. On the calendar. Every month. Twenty-three.

It used to be one. I was young then. Innocent. I miss those days. It hit five by the time I turned twenty. Then ten. Then twenty. I'm thirty-three years old now. It doesn't seem right.

People tell me to let go. To forget. That they'd want me to move on. I can't. I won't. Someone has to remember them. Love them. They deserve to be mourned. I make something for them, y'know? For each one. A little ornament, cast from metal. Something they would've liked. Something that would've made them smile. For those with families, I give it to them. The rest I put on my mantle, to soak up the warmth they'll never feel again. Twenty-three figures I made. Twenty-three.

My name's Joe. No, I don't have a last name. Not rich enough for that, y'see. I'm a simple man who lives a simple life getting whatever work I can here in Elendel and trying not to get myself killed by all the shenanigans that this city seems to attract.

I've got a wife and kids back at home, but I don't see 'em all that often on account of trying to make enough coin to put food on the table.