Fiona Bennett opened her backpack, took out a red rose wrapped in plastic, unwrapped it, and placed the not-yet-bloomed rose in front of the grave.

Then, she took out the other items from her bag as well.

"Criminology," "Interrogation and Inquiry," "Trace Evidence Examination," "Investigative Psychology," "Criminal Motivation and Personality," "Criminal Investigation"...

As she sat here, spreading these books out one by one in front of her, a feeling surged in her heart, as if Gabriel Adams was right here, steadfastly gazing at her, his hand resting on her shoulder, making it feel heavy.

She couldn't see Gabriel Adams; perhaps she would never see him again. But it felt as if she was together with Gabriel Adams, even though they had never truly been together.

She had come here to burn these books in front of the grave. She had already read them all. Every book, along with the stories inside, and every single character that made up those stories, the emotions behind every stroke and line—she had read them over and over, many times. It was time to let these stories return to where they came from, carrying her feelings with them. This was her reply to him.

Yet now, she suddenly wanted to wait a little longer. While the sunset was still here, she wanted to look at them a bit more.

Fiona Bennett casually picked up a book and opened it.

When I walked into the hospital room, she was often reading in bed.

Perhaps she already knew about her illness, but her pale face was still full of pride.

Even though her life was nearing its end, as long as she remained in this world, she was the most beautiful.

I chatted with her for a while, rambling about this and that. She seemed a bit tired, but she didn’t rush me to leave. Even to an ordinary friend like me, at a time like this, she could still show the utmost patience.

Maintaining such politeness must have been exhausting for her, I knew.

"Shall I show you a set of martial arts moves?" I asked.

"I didn’t know you could do martial arts," she smiled.

I stood up straight and struck a martial arts pose. Then, I took a horse stance and punched out with my right fist.

"Black Tiger Steals the Heart!"

She burst out laughing.

I clumsily went through the whole set, and she just kept laughing the entire time. Maybe she thought I was just trying to make her laugh with my performance.

That wasn’t wrong, but it was only part of the reason.

On a level unseen, I was releasing energy accumulated over many years, guiding it with my will, using this set of moves to search for the most hidden thread of vitality and life force in the universe.

Sweat dripped from me onto the floor, and my hands and feet began to tremble. She grew even happier, thinking I was putting my heart into the performance.

At last, I touched that most magnificent light—the origin and final destination of all life in this world. For a moment, I even thought that was where we came from before birth and where we would go after death.

That light rolled in along the path I had laid, warming the entire hospital room. Then, her body began to glow, the light gathering around her, forming a cocoon of light.

I finally threw the last punch and plopped down on the floor. The cocoon of light gradually faded into her body, and I grinned foolishly.

I had once fantasized that when the fruit of my energy finally ripened, I would become the most handsome hero in the world, hold her in my arms, and fly into the sky, just to see her surprised expression.

I never expected that I wouldn’t even get to fly myself, and would use up my energy like this.

But that’s fine—she’s not the kind of silly woman who would swoon at the sight of Superman.

I’d rather be like this, sitting on the floor, watching her laugh until she doubled over.

How wonderful it would be, if I could just keep watching her like this.

(Thanks to my wife Rachel Adams for her help during the writing of this book.)