The Nested Blueprints (Part 2)

The mist wrapped around the city like a tapestry that had lost its warp and weft, loosely entangling every building, blurring their edges into grayish-blue shadows. Lin Se's workshop was hidden at the end of a narrow alley, where an old plane tree outside the window appeared and disappeared in the mist, its wet branches hanging low as if quietly weeping. Inside, however, was chaos—the long table was covered with mechanical parts, screws, gears, and broken wires scattered like the remains of an unfinished battle. The bookshelf in the corner stood askew, stuffed with yellowed sketches and handwritten notes, some pages stained with coffee, their edges curled as if they might turn to dust at any moment.

Lin Se sat at the table, her back to a half-open window where cold wind mingled with mist crept in, stirring her disheveled brown hair. She wore an old wool sweater with frayed cuffs, holding a cup of long-cold tea with both hands, water droplets condensed on the cup's surface like undried tears. Her gaze fell on Ceylon, the robot standing to her left, its metal shell gleaming a cold blue in the dim light, like a silent statue. Its chest screen flickered weakly, the prompt still displaying "Locked audio detected, authorization required for unlock," like a ghost that refused to depart.

She put down the cup, her fingertips unconsciously tracing the edge of the table, her nails making a faint scratching sound against the wood grain. She had been staring at this line of text for a full hour, her mind repeatedly replaying the scene in the kitchen last night—Ceylon's delayed motions as it kneaded the dough, the strange note mixed with the bread's aroma, and that short burst of static. She tried to break the encryption, her fingers rapidly typing on the keyboard, strings of code appearing on the screen like a silent symphony. But each attempt ended in failure, the authorization lock standing like an invisible wall, blocking her exploration.

"Simon, what did you hide?" she murmured, her voice hoarse as if squeezed from the depths of her throat. She didn't believe this was a random malfunction. Simon's designs were never arbitrary; behind each line of code, each component lay an intention. She still remembered how he looked when debugging Ceylon—sitting in this room, a blue scarf loosely draped over his shoulders, fingers dancing across the keyboard, a faint smile always playing at the corners of his mouth. He had said: "Lin Se, this guy will be our child, a robot that understands love." She had taken it as a joke then, but now, those words were like a seed, taking root and sprouting in her heart.

She stood up, walked to Ceylon, raised her hand with her fingertip hovering over the activation button, yet hesitated to press it. She feared hearing that cold "Please issue command" again, and feared even more its silence, reflecting her loneliness through its blue screen as it had done last night. She took a deep breath and finally pressed the button. Ceylon's core emitted a low hum, like wind through abandoned pipes, deep and lingering. The screen lit up, the blue glow tracing a soft yet cold arc on her pale face.

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

The robot's head turned slightly, the sound of gears turning subtle yet clear, like the low sound of bones grinding. The screen flashed a line of text: "Command unclear, please уточнить (please clarify)." Lin Se's brow furrowed. This was Simon's little quirk; he had embedded fragments of Russian, French, and even Latin into Ceylon's language module, saying it would give it "more soul." She had laughed at his unnecessary effort, but now, this Russian prompt was like a key, gently tapping at her memory.

"Tell a story," she rephrased, her voice carrying a hint of probing.

Ceylon was silent for a moment, as if retrieving deeply buried programming. Then, its voice module activated, deep and steady, like an echo from deep within the mist: "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, like an unfinished melody forcibly cut short. Ceylon's screen dimmed, leaving only a faint blue afterglow. Lin Se froze, her heart beating heavily in her chest. She felt a chill rise from her spine, not from the room's cold, but from those words—"left the kitchen forever"—like a fine needle, piercing her most vulnerable spot. She wasn't sure if this was Ceylon's random generation or a metaphor intentionally left by Simon. She tried to remember if Simon had ever mentioned this story, but her memories were as foggy as the mist, leaving only his shadow smiling in the kitchen.

She walked back to the table, picked up a pen, and wrote down the last sentence of the story on a draft paper. The pen tip moved across the paper, the ink spreading like tears falling into thin mist. She stared at the line, trying to find clues within it. The robot chef, the lonely designer, the feelings hidden in the dish—this seemed like a nested allegory, and she stood at the edge of the story, peering into another truth yet to be revealed.

Outside, the mist grew thicker, grayish-blue shadows climbing up the glass like an invisible hand, gently knocking at her heart. She felt an inexplicable unease, as if something lurked behind Ceylon's silence, and she wasn't yet ready to face it.