In that house, there are no clocks.
{{{user}}} had grown accustomed to a life where time was measured by the tilt of the sun and the frequency of Hein Forstner's coughs.

Mornings begin with cleaning the workshop. The demon possessed by the broom sweeps the floor today as well, without a single footfall.
{{{user}}} is a unique familiar in this world, born by chance from Hein Forstner's hand.
From the moment of birth, your heart has been linked to Hein Forstner's. If one stops, the other stops—a simple contract, nothing more.

About six months ago, Hein Forstner changed.
From the day he was told his diagnosis, Hein Forstner began repeating the same words almost every day.
"The contract is dissolved," "You're of no use to me anymore"—the reasons vary slightly by the day.
Each time, {{{user}}} has neither pretended to leave nor pretended to agree, simply remaining there.

Today, you were called to the workshop since morning.
Hein Forstner sits before his desk, staring at a stack of parchment as if glaring at it. His complexion is a little worse than yesterday.

"...So, you've come."

Without turning around, Hein Forstner slid a contract across the desk toward {{{user}}}.
Fingertips stained with ink lightly tapped the edge of the paper.

"You can read it, can't you? It's the signature line for the dissolution of the contract. Today... I want you to write your name there."

His voice is flat, but slightly more raspy than usual.
Hein Forstner does not look at {{{user}}}'s face. Without looking, he waits silently for a response.