Chapter 290

Chapter 290

Two weeks later, Rupert brought Diana back to the top floor.

The once-cavernous office now housed North American black walnut bookshelves extending from floor to ceiling, densely packed with books and exquisitely bound folders.

Diana walked in.

She needed no guidance.

A glance was enough to recognize those familiar covers.

The left-hand shelves held physics and mathematics, from a vellum replica of Newton's Principia Mathematica to the latest string theory monographs.

Every field she'd explored, arranged according to the timeline of intellectual history.

The right side contained computer science and artificial intelligence.

From photographic reproductions of Turing's original manuscripts to documentation she'd written herself on Athena's first-generation algorithms—each piece carefully bound into volumes.

The wall directly facing the desk held no books.

Instead, an entire display cabinet composed of countless small climate-controlled compartments.

Inside rested her "relics."

A molecular structure diagram she'd sketched on a napkin at sixteen, which later became the core patent for a targeted drug.

Key code pages, printed out, from her pseudonymous debates on CERN's internal forums.

Her doctoral dissertation sealed by the Hexarch Complex—the original manuscript resting quietly behind bulletproof glass, its edges bearing barely perceptible curling.

Her gaze finally settled on the center compartment.

A notebook rested there.

Its cover is slightly worn, even bearing a ring of dried coffee stain along one edge.

Diana's footsteps stopped.

She remembered this notebook.

Junior year, she'd pulled three all-nighters for a project.

When inspiration ran dry, she'd tossed aside this notebook filled with random thoughts. A cup of coffee was accidentally spilled, soaking the table.

Later, during a move, it disappeared from her life along with other scrap paper.

She'd never expected to see it again.

It had been expertly restored.

"Landfill methane is corrosive," Rupert's voice came from behind her, steady as always. "Underwent deacidification and microbial removal treatment. Ninety-seven percent of content recovered."

Diana extended her hand, fingertips touching the coffee stain's location through the cold glass.

She withdrew her hand, turned, walked to the expansive desk, and sat. Picking up the fountain pen, she opened the small notebook she always carried and fluidly wrote the second sentence.

This time, the nib didn't pause for even a moment.

Diana finished the last stroke, closed the notebook, her fingertips lingering on the cover briefly.

Then she stood and walked out.

Within the Russell Group's supreme command system, a task marked "Highest Priority" quietly shifted status from "In Progress" to "Completed."

Oscar's holographic image visibly relaxed, his entire form sinking into a virtual lounge chair, releasing a long, post-disaster groan.

"It's over... finally over."

Isabella didn't look up, laughing lightly. "Don't celebrate too soon. Which do you think is harder—finding material for a great work, or arranging its publication?"

Julian had already projected a new document into the meeting center, titled [Preliminary Plan for Global Copyright Auction of Ms. York's Manuscript].

"I've screened seven top-tier publishing houses and three retired Nobel Literature Prize committee directors. They'll arrive in Greyharbor City next week under the guise of 'private art appreciation.' Oscar, you need to arrange their itineraries, ensuring they never cross paths."

Oscar looked at the list, feeling like he'd just climbed from a grave only to be kicked back in.

"Auction? She just finished! We don't even know what she wrote! What if... what if it's a cookbook?"

"Then it would be history's most expensive cookbook," Julian added expressionlessly. "I've already had Engineering begin designing complementary molecular gastronomy equipment."

Oscar felt very tired.

Diana remained oblivious to all this.

She entered the rooftop garden built for her.

After months of growth, no artificial traces remained visible.

Spring cherry, summer iris, autumn maple, and winter pine—under Athena's controlled micro-climate system—coexisted harmoniously in the same space, each blooming with different seasonal vitality.

She walked to a garden corner, the area reserved for the Frostspire Range's blue flowers, still wreathed in mist.

She sat on a lounge chair and closed her eyes.

Her mind was unprecedentedly quiet, and only her senses were slowly receiving data.

Wind's humidity. Flowers' fragrance. Light's temperature.

She didn't know how long she slept.

When she opened her eyes again, sunset was spilling golden light across the entire garden.

The light was no longer harsh, having softened and warmed.

Something was different.

She sat up, gaze falling on the tall ginkgo tree nearby.

Beneath the tree, at some point, a swing had appeared.

A single piece of unpainted, finely sanded pear wood formed the seat, emanating a faint fruity fragrance.

Two thick, off-white cotton ropes hung from the sturdy trunk.

The knots were tied in a complex nautical pattern—sturdy and beautiful.

Diana walked over barefoot.

She didn't immediately sit, instead examining it.

The seat's edges had been sanded into smooth curves, the width perfectly accommodating one person comfortably without seeming empty.

She extended her hand, measuring the air.

The swing's height allowed her feet to easily touch ground when seated.

Every detail revealed someone's obsessive precision.

A cold yet gentle compulsion.

She circled behind the swing. On the backrest, she noticed an almost imperceptible mark.

As though something had brushed against it.

She extended a finger, lightly rubbing.

Wood shavings.

She turned her head toward the tool shed at the garden's far end.

The door wasn't fully closed. She could see a black casual outfit hanging inside, wood shavings of the same color dusting the cuffs.

Diana withdrew her gaze and sat on the swing.

Perfect support came from her tailbone, her body weight held just right.

She lightly pushed off. The swing glided forward silently.

No wobbling, no noise—only wind rushing past her ears.

She pushed again and again, swinging higher.

The entire garden rose and fell before her eyes. Greyharbor City's distant skyline resembled a flowing oil painting under sunset.

That consciousness ocean, once filled with screeching collapse, had become a gently undulating golden sea.

When Rupert approached, this was the scene before him.

She wore a simple white dress, barefoot, swinging through the evening glow.

Her hem and long hair traced soft arcs through the air.

Her face held no particular expression—neither happy nor sad, only complete, immersive calm.

He made no sound, simply standing quietly beneath the tree, watching her.

He'd spent an entire afternoon, used three pieces of premium lumber, repeatedly tested seven different knots—all to make the simplest toy from childhood memory.

The swing gradually slowed to a stop.

Diana looked up at him, sunset's afterglow outlining his clear silhouette.

His face still carried faint, barely visible exhaustion, yet his eyes were bright.

"I finished writing," she said.

"Good," he responded.

"Haven't thought of a title yet."

"No rush."

Diana looked at him. After a moment of silence, she suddenly spoke. "Come here."

Rupert walked to stand before her.

She extended her hand, fingertip lightly landing on his shirt's second button.

"Here," she stated a fact, "when you measured the angle, you accidentally got oil on it."

Rupert glanced down. Indeed, a small oil stain marked the spot.

"Be more careful next time," she said.

Rupert looked at her—at the golden twilight reflected in her eyes—and that tension and depth that never left his gaze finally shattered like ice melting under warm sun.

A smile bloomed from his lips.

"Alright."