Sometimes you people seem so absurd to me in what you say and in what you do but it is the way some of you are that melts my heart (Death has a heart, you see) and keeps me glued to ‘the race’. This is the story of one such human. A boy. The boy’s name is Gaspard and he doesn’t remember the first time I laid eyes on him, how could he? Even Death cannot rid its memory of certain sounds and I shall never forget the nauseating yelp that snuck between his mothers chapped lips when I came for her during childbirth. The marriage of life and death in this way often marks a new page in my own agenda as I make a particular point of returning to check upon those children, particularly those like Gaspard, the orphans. I often play what you might regard as a pivotal role in ensuring the safety of those children, taking particular care to keep a safe distance between myself and the child, more often than not doing my part by eliminating human obstacles before they present themselves in the form of danger later on in the child’s life. I feel it’s the least I can do. You’ll see just how I manipulate events in a short while but first let me tell you about that initial meeting with the boy Gaspard and why I instantly decided to make a special project of his existence. This is the story of a short life and it begins in Paris fourteen years and eight days ago.