The Nested Blueprints (Part 4)

I stand in the center of the studio, the air cold as ice water pouring down my throat, fog seeping through the window cracks, clinging damply to my skin. Ceylon is right in front of me, the blue light on its screen flickering, like a heart about to stop beating. I stare at it, at the "Locked Audio Detected" prompt, at its silent metal body, feeling something blocking my chest—a heavy stone, pressing down so I can barely breathe.

Aivi's words still echo in my ears, like whispers in the fog, sharp and cutting. "He's not dead," I had told her, my voice shaking like leaves in the wind, but she just looked at me with that pity in her eyes, like she was watching a sleepwalker who refused to wake up. I didn't want to hear her continue, didn't want to hear her turn Simon's name into a pile of cold words. So I made her leave. I said, "You should go, I have things to do." My tone was as cold as the air in this room, foreign even to myself.

When she left, she took with her a hint of the fog's chill. As the door closed, I heard a bang, like something breaking. But I didn't turn around, just stood there, fingers clutching the letter, the paper in my pocket digging into my ribs like a thorn. I dare not look at it again, but those words—"the kitchen is love's grave"—were branded in my mind like a hot iron, burning until my vision blurred.

I walk back to Ceylon, my footsteps creaking on the floorboards like an old house sighing. I look down at it, at those overly intricate hands—Simon's design, with joints as flexible as a real person's, even with simulated lines on the palms. I still remember how he looked when adjusting it, blue scarf loosely draped over his shoulders, fingers dancing on the keyboard, a smile playing on his lips. He said, "Lin Se, these hands will make a dish that serves you love." I thought it was just a joke then, but now, those hands hang at its sides, cold and lifeless, like a shell without a soul.

"What else are you hiding?" I ask, my voice so low it's like talking to myself. I know it won't answer, at least not like Simon would, with that smile in his voice. But I still ask, like a fool, pouring my heart out to a machine. I reach out, press its start button, feeling a bone-chilling cold as my fingertips touch the metal. Ceylon's core hums softly, like wind through abandoned pipes, the screen lighting up, casting a blue glow on my face like a thin layer of frost.

"Tell me a story," I say, my voice firmer this time, commanding yet pleading.

It remains silent for a moment, as if searching for something. Then, its voice emerges, deep and steady, like an echo from deep within the fog: "Once, there was a robot chef, designed to cook perfect meals. Its master 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."

I listen, my body frozen in place, as if turned to ice. The story appears again, just like yesterday in the kitchen, but this time it's like a knife, slowly cutting open my heart. I feel heat at the corners of my eyes, but I clench my teeth, refusing to let the tears fall. I don't want to cry, at least not here, not in front of Ceylon. It stops, the screen dimming, leaving only a trace of blue light, like an unhealed wound.

"Simon," I whisper, as if calling his name could summon him back from the fog, "you wrote this, didn't you?" I stare at Ceylon, at its screen, suddenly noticing a string of tiny characters flash across it, like a jumble of code, or perhaps a cipher, disappearing in an instant within the blue glow. I lunge forward, fingers hammering at the keyboard, trying to capture that string, but the screen has already returned to normal, as if nothing happened.

I lean against the table, hand supporting my forehead, fingertips ice-cold, as if frozen by the fog. Outside, the fog has thickened, blue-gray shadows crawling up the glass like an invisible hand gently knocking at my heart. I feel dizzy, like standing on a cliff edge with the ground beneath me collapsing. I don't know if the story is true or false, don't know what's hidden in that audio, but I know it's related to Simon, to the one who vanished into the fog.

I turn around, back to Ceylon, fingers running through my hair, trying to calm myself. But those words—"the kitchen is love's grave"—echo like a looping elegy in my mind. I suddenly recall how he looked in the kitchen, flour on his apron, cookies in hand, smiling as he said, "Try these, they taste like love." But now, that taste has turned bitter, like the aftertaste of wine on the tongue.

Outside, the fog condenses into droplets, sliding down the glass like silent tears. I stand there, feeling like a shadow, trapped in this gray-blue mist, unable to find a way out.