Chapter 100 Bonus Chapter 28: Tell Her for Me

Chapter 100 Bonus Chapter 28: Tell Her for Me
The last time Nathan went to the lab was one week before he died.
By then, he was already very weak. A few steps left him breathless, as if he had just finished a long run. His hands trembled badly. He could not hold a pipette. He could barely use a mouse. The cursor wobbled across the screen, refusing to land where he wanted it to.
Joshua told him not to come in.
“I’ll email you the data tomorrow,” Joshua said. “Don’t make the trip. Rest at home.”
Nathan did not listen.
He had the driver take him to campus, then walked upstairs by himself. Each step was slow, as if he were crossing soft sand and lifting his feet required more strength than his body wanted to give.
When he reached the lab, he did not go to the bench.
He knew he could not work anymore. His hands could barely pick up a test tube, much less perform experiments that required steadiness and precision. He did not want anyone to see him like that.
He went into his office and sat down.
Leaning back in his chair, he looked out at the campus beyond the window.
The sunlight was beautiful. Chicago in autumn, the sky high and blue. Shadows from the trees fell across the grass in gold and orange-red patches. A few leaves spun down in the wind. Several students passed below with backpacks, talking and laughing. A girl ran a few steps to catch up with the boy ahead of her and tapped him on the shoulder.
The boy turned around and smiled.
Nathan watched them and thought of many years ago.
He had once walked across campus like that too. A girl beside him had run a few steps to catch up, then tapped him on the shoulder. When he turned, she was smiling.
Chloe.
Always Chloe.
She was always running until she was breathless, blonde hair flying in the wind, cheeks flushed, calling out the moment she entered the lab, “Nathan! I’m here!”
Her voice was loud enough for the entire room to hear.
Every time, he would glance at his colleagues in embarrassment.
Every time, his heart was sweet.
He would look at her and smile. “I know.”
Then she would run over, hug his arm, and rub against him like a spoiled little cat.
“Did you miss me?”
If he did not answer, she would not let go. She would keep rubbing against his arm until it grew warm, until he had no choice but to surrender.
“I missed you,” he would say.
Then she would be satisfied, eyes curving, mouth lifting, like a cat who had stolen a fish and gotten away with it.
Nathan sat in his chair and closed his eyes.
Sunlight rested on his face, warm and gentle. He felt that warmth pass through his eyelids and turn the darkness behind them a soft orange-red. His breathing was slow, but steady.
After Nathan died, his team took over the projects he had left unfinished.
One of them was a drug for Huntington’s disease.
Huntington’s was a hereditary neurodegenerative disorder. Patients developed involuntary, dance-like movements. Their emotions became unstable. Their cognitive function gradually declined. There was no cure.
Before his death, Nathan had already completed the preliminary drug design and animal studies. The project had entered the optimization stage.
He left behind a thick stack of notebooks.
A4 size. Blue covers. Corners worn soft from years of use. Every page was packed with experimental ideas, data analysis, and next-step plans.
His handwriting was small and neat, each stroke precise, almost printed.
Joshua read those notebooks from beginning to end.
He sat in Nathan’s office, turning page after page, as if reading a very long novel written in numbers, arrows, and stubborn hope.
On the last few pages of the final notebook, he found one small line.
It was written in the blank space at the lower right corner. So small that anyone careless would have missed it.
If this works, tell her for me.
There was no name.
No title.
Nothing that clearly pointed to anyone.
But Joshua knew.
He took a photo of the page and sent it to Mason.
Mason looked at it for a long time.
He was sitting on the couch in Nathan’s old house, the light from his phone washing over his face.
Then he sent back one word.
Okay.
The drug was approved three years after Nathan’s death.
That evening, Mason went to the cemetery.
He went alone. He did not tell anyone. On the way, he bought a bouquet from the front of a grocery store. Nothing expensive. Just one of those mixed bouquets wrapped in clear cellophane: daisies, lilies, a few sprigs of baby’s breath, tied with a purple ribbon.
He walked to Nathan’s grave and crouched down.
The cemetery was quiet in autumn. The wind was light. The grass had already yellowed.
Mason placed the flowers in front of the headstone, then took the small bottle from his pocket.
A little white bottle, with a white label printed with the drug’s name and the company’s logo.
It came from the first batch released to market. A SAMPLE sticker still clung to its side.
He set it beside the bouquet.
“Dad,” he said softly, as if afraid of waking someone. “Your drug made it.”
He crouched there and wiped the dust from the headstone with his hand. The marble was cool beneath his palm. After he wiped it clean, Nathan’s name became clear again.
The wind moved through the grass beside the grave.
Mason stood.
He remained there for a long time, wind lifting his hair and tugging at his coat. His hands were tucked in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes fixed on Nathan’s name.
Then the wind came again, and the grass stirred once more.
After a while, Mason turned and left.
Behind him, in front of the headstone, the little bottle of medicine caught the sunset.
For one brief moment, it shone with a fine, broken light.