She understood now why Zef had been so well-paid. And why, for six years, no one had dared reopen the 2018 registry.
"Official procedure," Lira said, her voice firmer than she felt, "requires a court order. Without an entry, you don't exist. You can't vote, marry, or get a passport."
For a long moment, they stared at the book. Then Lira handed Arjeta a certified copy.
"13 Prill 2018, Durrës. Lindur: Arjeta, vajzë. Nëna: Miranda Cela. Babai: [i panjohur]. Shënuar me vendim të brendshëm administrativ, 23 Tetor 2024." regjistri gjendjes civile 2018
Lira felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach. The 2018 registry had been her first major assignment as a junior clerk. She remembered the registrar then—a fat, sweaty man named Zef who always smelled of rakia and wore a gold pinky ring. Zef who had died suddenly in 2019, taking his secrets with him.
"I was born in 2018," Arjeta said, her voice a fragile thing. "But I don't exist."
Lira took out a magnifying glass. Beneath the surface of the paper, she saw the faint indentations of a name: Arjeta . And a mother’s name: Miranda . And a father’s name that made her blood run cold—because she recognized it. It was a former deputy minister, still alive, still powerful. She understood now why Zef had been so well-paid
Lira looked at the registry. The 2018 volume was sacrosanct. To alter it would be to admit that the state had failed. It would cost her job, her pension, her reputation.
She stamped it with the official seal. Not the one for corrections—that required three signatures. She used the emergency validation stamp, reserved for cases of "manifest clerical error."
Arjeta placed the photograph on the counter. It showed a baby girl in a pink blanket, held by a woman with tired eyes. On the back, written in faded ballpoint: Arjeta, 13 Prill 2018, Spitali i Durrësit. Without an entry, you don't exist
"My mother died last month," Arjeta continued. "She told me on her deathbed: the day I was born, my father panicked. He was married to another woman. To save his reputation, he bribed the registrar to leave me out of the book. I was a ghost before I took my first breath."
But as she turned off the basement light, she smiled. Some ledgers record facts. Others, she thought, record choices. And the Regjistri Gjendjes Civile 2018 would now always show that on October 23, 2024, a clerk named Lira chose to make a ghost real.
"You exist now," Lira said. "April 13, 2018. Welcome to the world."
The next morning, Lira called Arjeta. "Come back at noon," she said.
Or so she had thought.