The name did not belong to him yet.
It had been spoken, written, repeated but it had not settled. Names were meant to attach, to anchor a person to the world. This one hovered, provisional, like a form awaiting approval.
The handler used it carefully.
"Aurel," they said one morning.
He looked up. "Yes?"
The handler nodded, as if confirming something to themselves.
That was how it began.
The first document arrived before midday.
It was thin, thinner than it should have been for a naming assignment—and stamped with a provisional seal. No crest. No signature. Just a designation line filled in with practiced precision.
AURELWard Status: ConditionalCustodial Oversight: Assigned
The handler read it twice.
There was no place to sign.
"Is that my name?" Aurel asked later, watching the handler tuck the paper into the file.
"It's what they'll use," the handler said. "For now."
Aurel considered that. "Do I get to keep it?"
The handler hesitated. "Names don't usually work like that."
Aurel nodded. He had learned how things worked.
The first problem appeared in the records.
It was small. A supply requisition listed Aurel's room under a different designation code. The clerk corrected it manually. When the correction failed to propagate, she flagged it for review.
The review returned with the same name spelled correctly attached to the wrong history.
By evening, the handler was summoned for procedural clarification.
"When did you begin using the name?" a scribe asked.
"After assignment."
"Was the name chosen by you?"
"Yes."
"Did the child respond to it?"
The handler paused. "He answered."
That was written down.
That night, Aurel did not sleep.
The name followed him, pressing at the edges of thought. He repeated it once under his breath.
"Aurel."
The lamp flickered.
Not enough to matter. Enough to notice.
In the morning, a second document waited.
Name Confirmation: Pending.
The handler folded it carefully.
"Aurel," they said.
"Yes," he answered more quickly this time.
"Do you like your name?"
He thought about it. "It's quieter than the others."
The handler did not ask what he meant.
Later, a scribe attempted to cross-reference the name against ward registries. The spell returned a partial match, then stalled.
The name remained.
The history did not.
That afternoon, a clerk passed Aurel in the corridor and stopped.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Have we met?"
"No," Aurel replied.
She nodded and continued on, unsettled.
Later, she would find the name written twice in her ledger without remembering why.
That night, the stabilizing rune in Aurel's room dimmed and brightened, as if recalculating.
The name remained.
The walls adjusted.
And somewhere in the records wing, the Minister of Census and Continuity tapped a report once with his finger.
"Names anchor existence," he murmured.
The page did not respond.