"Understood."
Russell sighed and helplessly withdrew the hand that had been reaching for the milk bottle. He skillfully ground the coffee beans, and soon the rich aroma filled the entire room.
When he returned to Charlotte with the steaming black coffee, she was completely imrsed in the case file. Her beautiful gray-blue eyes scanned the yellowed pages rapidly, as if trying to absorb every word into her brain.
"Your coffee."
Russell placed the cup beside her.
"Mm."
Charlotte answered without looking up. Her attention remained fully focused.
Seeing this, Russell didn't bother her anymore and turned to leave. The sound of the door closing echoed briefly in the room before fading away.
A while later, Charlotte ca back to her senses, picked up the now-cold coffee, and took a sip. She put down the docunt she was holding and pinched the bridge of her nose.
Just then, sothing on the sofa caught the corner of her eye.
It was Russell's backpack. He seed to have forgotten to take it with him.
"What a careless man."
She muttered, set down her coffee cup, and picked up the backpack to return it to Russell.
But at that mont, Charlotte paused. As if struck by a sudden idea, the girl's gaze involuntarily fixed on the backpack. It was an ordinary canvas shoulder bag. The frayed edges suggested its owner hadn't treated it with much care.
Charlotte stared at the backpack as if it contained Pandora's box. Conflict and hesitation appeared in her gray-blue eyes.
Curiosity was both the greatest virtue and the greatest weakness of a detective. In the end, this innate curiosity overca the trivial moral constraints regarding privacy.
I'm just… checking if he missed anything important.
She made up a la excuse for her actions, then reached out with that wicked hand.
The zipper of Russell's backpack wasn't fully closed, so she could easily see the contents: several thick textbooks, a fountain pen, and… a notebook.
Found it.
When she took the notebook out of the backpack, a faint white-tea scent imdiately filled her nostrils. It was a stimulating sll.
Then Charlotte opened the notebook. On the cover, the na "Mary Morstan" was written in delicate handwriting.
Charlotte skipped the boring notes filled with equations and theories at the beginning and flipped through the next few pages with practiced ease. She saw the familiar stick figures: the cat-eared boy sleeping on the table, the figure lounging on the sofa eating snacks, and even the one she herself had drawn—a stick figure in a tuxedo holding a teacup.
The doodles hadn't been erased, and Charlotte smiled proudly.
However, her gaze was drawn to a new doodle right next to her own drawing. It was the sa stick figure in a tuxedo. But unlike the one she drew, this stick figure wasn't drinking tea. Instead, it was gracefully extending a hand, as if inviting soone to dance. Opposite him was another stick figure in an elegant long dress, gently placing her hand in his palm.
The two were dancing gracefully in the small blank space of the drawing paper. With simple lines, they depicted quiet romance and harmony.
The mont Charlotte saw the drawing, her smile froze. With a loud Bang! she slamd the notebook shut. The force was so great that a dull thud echoed.
"Boring."
She shoved the troubleso notebook back into the backpack and tossed it onto the sofa as if it were trash.
But shortly after, Charlotte picked it up again and took the notebook out once more. She flipped to the last page with practiced hands, then casually took a pen from Russell's bag.
The pen tip touched the paper, but there was no further movent. The girl was stunned.
What should I draw? Or rather, is there anything else worth drawing?
The mont Charlotte's pen touched the paper, her eyes—which should have been filled with wisdom—were filled with an inexplicable confusion. She stared at the two stick figures dancing on the paper. Under the halo of the overhead light, their silhouettes shone brightly. They looked like the two protagonists of a play, while she was rely an insignificant background character who had accidentally wandered onto the stage. This gave her a strange sense of irritation.
She wanted to draw sothing. In this quiet battle, she wanted to make a coback in her own way.
But… what should she draw? Should she draw a more complex dance move? Or a more elaborate scene? That would feel sowhat intentional and superficial. If she did that, she would only look like a comical loser acting clumsily out of jealousy.
Charlotte Hols was not a loser. And above all, it wouldn't be realistic. All the stick figures of Russell that Mary had drawn were modeled after the real Russell she had actually t. She had never seen Russell perform a complex dance. Rather, in her eyes, Russell always looked the sa whenever she rembered him. That tuxedo appearance at Buckingham Palace had been a dream-like coincidence. Once was enough. There wouldn't be a second or third ti.
Charlotte's thoughts began to wander, and her gaze drifted. It felt like she was playing blindfold chess with Mary. The special mories with Russell were the pieces in their hands. The one who finished placing all the pieces first would lose.
Charlotte's mind spun at full speed as she desperately searched for ideas and recalled mories. Finally, her gaze fell on the coffee cup in her hand. At that mont, the image of Russell grinding coffee beans appeared before her eyes.
Yes.
Charlotte took a deep breath, and light returned to her gray-blue eyes. Without hesitation, she quickly moved the pen across the paper. The sound of the pen scratching against the paper echoed in the quiet room.
This ti, she didn't just draw stick figures. On one side of the drawing was a stick figure in a bathrobe standing beside the coffee table, holding a coffee cup in a sloppy, relaxed posture. Opposite her was another stick figure with its back turned to her, slightly bent forward, as if washing sothing. The posture wasn't particularly straight; it was slightly hunched, making it look quite ordinary. Yet for so reason, it gave people a strange sense of reassurance.
After finishing the drawing, she gazed at her work with satisfaction, and the corners of her mouth unconsciously lifted again.
Mary should compare this drawing not with the previous ballroom doodle, but on a separate page. Every dance eventually cos to an end. But morning always cos, every single day.
"Hmph."
The girl gave a small snort, closed the notebook, and stuffed it back into Russell's backpack. Then she grabbed the backpack, left her room, and knocked on Russell's door.
"Who is it?"
When Russell opened the door, Charlotte stood at the entrance with an arrogant attitude.
"Take it."
Charlotte shoved the backpack she was holding into Russell's arms.
"Your backpack."
After returning the item, she turned on her heel as if nothing had happened and walked back to her room.
Russell watched her leave quickly, then scratched his head in confusion. Her mood seed much better than before.
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