We met at the bar just outside my flat.

He was old, definitely very old; I remember that for certain. Not just his skin or his complexion, but very much in the eyes as they seemed... worn. Before we even spoke I knew there was something distinguishing about him, that he had seen far more than anyone else there.

I sat beside him and asked for his name, but instead he told me of the man who had none.

Perplexed, I asked how he made a living. "Sneezing," he chuckled, and told me of another who did too.

Finally, sensing he was a foreigner, I asked where he lived. "A castle," he replied, and told me how it came to be.

He smiled and left without another word. He never actually revealed to me a single detail about his life. Hell, I know more hard facts about the vagabond living in the trash nearby than this man I spent half an hour talking with. After all this time I don't even remember what he looks like but...

I know who he is.