Chapter 291
Chapter 291
The secret auction for Diana's manuscripts' global copyright ultimately took place on a sunny afternoon in the Temple of Knowledge atop the Russell Group Building.
Diana didn't attend.
Rupert, as the sole authorized representative, sat behind the desk, not speaking a single word throughout.
He simply placed that small notebook at the conference table's center.
A group of cultural titans whose footsteps could trigger earthquakes in the world of letters wore white gloves like reverent students, taking turns examining that slim notebook.
Their brows furrowed at times, their eyes brightened at others, and sometimes they fell into prolonged silence.
No one discussed copyright, royalties, or first print runs.
After finishing the final page, a veteran publisher from Valeria removed his reading glasses and said in Valerian, "This is a love poem written with a scalpel."
Ultimately, the publication rights went to no commercial publisher.
They were acquired at a symbolic price by a nonprofit cultural foundation headquartered in Velmora City.
They promised to use the simplest design and most eco-friendly paper, translating it into one hundred languages so anyone who wanted to read it could do so at minimal cost.
Diana chose the title herself.
[Sensory Report].
A calm, objective, even somewhat cold title.
Like an experimental record, not a literary work.
The book's release had no launch event, no media announcements, and no promotional campaign of any kind.
Like a seed, it was scattered silently across the world, then stubbornly took root and sprouted through word-of-mouth alone.
The first response came not from literary circles, but from science and philosophy.
A renowned cognitive neuroscientist wrote on personal social media: "This book made me reconsider the definition of 'consciousness.'"
"We exhaust all means to detect the brain's physical reactions, yet forget that the most precious sample is ourselves. The author records a consciousness storm with unprecedented brutal honesty. She provides no answers, but the questions she raises deserve a decade of contemplation from all of us."
Next came the art world and the psychology fields.
Finally, it permeated ordinary people's lives.
A girl serializing her cancer battle on an online forum wrote: "I don't know what the author experienced, but I understood that feeling—your body becomes your most alien battlefield. What I gained from this book wasn't cheap encouragement, but a kind of... permission. Permission to acknowledge my pain, and permission to believe I possess the power to rebuild order."
Letters arrived like snowflakes from around the world, forwarded through the Velmora City foundation to Russell Group headquarters.
They weren't delivered to Diana's hands.
All correspondence first underwent preliminary screening by Julian's team, filtering out fanatical, offensive, or ill-intentioned content.
Then they were categorized, placed in different colored archive boxes, and sent to Rupert's study.
Late at night, only a warm desk lamp illuminated the office.
Rupert wasn't handling Group affairs.
He sat with no complex financial statements before him, but letters from strangers.
He used a silver letter opener to carefully slit each envelope, movements as focused as signing a billion-dollar contract.
He read slowly, carefully.
He'd read lengthy academic discussions and brief reader impressions alike.
But he always lingered longest on the final sections.
"...I hope the author takes care of herself."
"...Wishing you health, wherever you are now."
"...After finishing this book, the first thing I did was walk to my balcony and watch a complete sunset. Thank you. Please, live well."
"...I'm a pediatrician. This book reminded me of those infants who can't speak, who can only express pain through crying and body temperature. We're all submitting our own 'sensory reports' to the world in our own ways. May your world from now on hold only constant warmth."
Rupert extracted these letters bearing blessings, setting them aside in a box he'd personally selected.
Once, when Oscar delivered urgent late-night documents, this was the scene he witnessed.
His boss wore gold-rimmed glasses like a medieval scholar, focused on organizing a pile of correspondence.
He was even using special ink to annotate envelope corners in nearly invisible script.
Oscar curiously glanced over.
One notation read: "Meteorology PhD, hypothesis about wind speed and emotion correlation, interesting."
Another: "Homemaker, description of flour texture during baking, sincere."
Yet another: "Anonymous hopes the author's swing is sturdy. Had Engineering recheck."
Oscar felt he must be hallucinating from too many all-nighters.
He silently withdrew, deciding to apply for extended leave tomorrow.
---
Diana discovered the camphor wood box on a rainy day.
She hadn't gone to the garden, but was browsing leisurely in the study.
This temple, built for her, had also become a place she occasionally rested.
Today, her attention was drawn to an antique wooden box in the desk corner.
Diana approached and opened it.
Inside lay only neatly preserved stacks of letter paper.
She randomly picked up the topmost one.
The paper was ordinary recycled stock, the handwriting somewhat immature, like a student's.
"...I used to think the world was so noisy, everyone talking but no one really listening. Your book made me understand that quietly feeling is also a form of resistance. I don't know why, but after finishing it, I really hoped you're someone who sleeps well every night. Wishing you good rest."
Diana held that thin sheet of paper, standing for a long time.
She'd found logically consistent language for what she'd experienced.
She hadn't expected this language to be translated by the world into the simplest, most awkward kindness.
She raised her head, gaze passing through gaps between bookshelves toward the window.
Rain drummed against glass. That garden built for her alone appeared especially tranquil in the downpour.
That swing she'd never asked for was being washed clean by rain, quietly awaiting the next sunny day.
She suddenly understood what Rupert was doing.
He wasn't screening readers for her. He was collecting the world's echoes for her.
He was picking out the warmest, softest echoes one by one from the chaotic noise, placing them in this box.
Diana didn't close the box.
She simply returned the letter, wishing her "good rest," to the top layer, then began examining the contents beneath.
Her browsing pace was unhurried, her gaze scanning texts from different countries in different handwriting while her brain automatically categorized information.
Seventy-three percent pure emotional resonance, fifteen percent philosophical or theological extrapolation, eight percent literary analysis.