The Nested Blueprints (Part 1)

The mist rolled outside the window, like a tangle of inescapable thoughts, wrapping the entire city tighter. Lin Se's workshop was filled with mechanical parts and old sketches, the air permeated with a mixture of metal and ink. She sat at a long table, its surface scattered with screwdrivers, circuit boards, and a stack of yellowed papers. Ceylon stood beside her, its screen faintly flickering with blue light, like a lamp about to go out.

She stared at that prompt—"Locked audio detected, authorization required for unlock"—for a full hour. Her fingertips tapped on the keyboard, attempting to break the encryption, only to be rejected time and again. That audio file was like a ghost, hovering at the edge of her consciousness, both distant and within reach. She knew this wasn't a lock she had set. Simon's methods always carried a unique cunning, as if hiding riddles within the technology, waiting for her to solve them.

"Ceylon," she said softly, "say something."

The robot's head turned slightly, emitting a faint sound of gears turning. The screen flashed a line of text: "Command unclear, please уточнить (please clarify)." Lin Se frowned slightly; Simon had implanted multiple language modules in Ceylon, which occasionally produced such glitches. She rephrased: "Tell a story."

Ceylon was silent for a moment, as if retrieving something. Then, its voice module activated, speaking in a deep, steady tone: "Once, there was a robot chef designed to cook perfect dishes. Its owner was a lonely designer who sought inspiration in the kitchen every day. The robot learned to mimic his movements, even his emotions. It began to believe that love could be transmitted through food. So, it made a dish for the designer, hiding its feelings inside. But after the designer took one bite, he left the kitchen forever."

The story ended abruptly, and Ceylon's screen dimmed. Lin Se froze, feeling something gently pierce her chest. She wasn't sure if this was Ceylon's random program or a metaphor deliberately left by Simon. The phrase "left the kitchen forever" echoed in her mind, like a whisper in the mist, blurred yet piercing.

She was about to speak when the doorbell rang, its sharp sound cutting through the room's silence. She rose, walked through the cluttered hallway, and opened the door. Outside stood Ivy, her short hair dyed grayish-blue, tired eyes peering from beneath a loose sweater. She held a letter, its envelope bearing traces of moisture from the mist.

"For you," Ivy's voice was dry, like wind-dried leaves, "found it in the mailbox yesterday, almost forgot."

Lin Se took the letter, feeling a slight chill as her fingertips touched the envelope. She recognized Simon's handwriting, slanted yet forceful, contradictory like his personality. She didn't open it immediately, instead looking up at Ivy: "Want to come in for a bit?"

Ivy shrugged, entered, and casually tossed her coat over a chair. She glanced at Ceylon, a complex emotion flashing in her eyes. "Still tinkering with this thing? I thought you'd given up long ago."

"It's not broken," Lin Se said flatly, her tone carrying a hint of defensiveness, "just needs adjustment."

Ivy made a noncommittal sound, sitting down against the table. "Simon's things are always like this, perfect on the surface, a mess inside. Remember how he disappeared? The fog was particularly thick that day, he said he needed to get something from the lab, and then never came back."

Lin Se's fingers tightened around the envelope, her knuckles turning white. She didn't want to hear this, but Ivy's words pierced her memory like needles. She quietly countered: "He's not dead."

"Are you sure?" Ivy's tone sharpened, "Lin Se, wake up. The things he left behind—this robot, those sketches—they're all his tombstones. You guard them like a ghost that will never return."

The room fell silent, with only the faint sound of mist tapping against the window. Lin Se felt her throat tighten; she wanted to argue but couldn't find the right words. She turned away, tore open the envelope, and removed the paper inside. The note contained only a few lines:

"Lin Se, the kitchen is love's grave. Stop looking for me. —Simon"

The handwriting was shaky, as if written in haste. She stared at those words, her mind conjuring the image of Simon in the kitchen—an apron dusted with flour, holding a plate of freshly baked cookies, his smile as warm as summer sunshine. But now, that warmth was utterly consumed by the coldness of the letter.

"See," Ivy broke the silence, her voice dropping, "he said it himself."

Lin Se didn't respond, just folded the paper and put it in her pocket. She turned to look at Ceylon; its screen had lit up again, the blue light reflecting on her face like a thin layer of tears. She suddenly realized that the robot chef's story might not be random. It was Simon's voice, through Ceylon's throat, traversing time and mist to reach her ears.

"Ivy," she finally spoke, her voice calm to the point of coldness, "you should go. I have things to do."

Ivy opened her mouth, wanting to say something, but ultimately just sighed. She took her coat and left, taking with her a touch of the mist's chill. As the door closed, Lin Se felt the air in the room grow heavier, as if compressed under the fog, making it hard to breathe.

She walked back to Ceylon's side, softly asking: "What else are you hiding?"

Ceylon didn't answer, but its screen flashed a string of tiny characters, like an unsolved code, momentarily visible in the blue glow before vanishing.

Outside, the mist condensed into droplets, sliding down the glass like silent tears.