The room was terrifyingly quiet, save for the scratching of a quill against parchment.
At the desk by the window, Albert was engrossed in writing, a few crumpled balls of paper scattered by the legs of the table.
Who knows how long he had been sitting there; the cup of black tea on the desk had long since gone cold. Yet Albert picked it up without a care, took a sip, and went right back to writing in his notebook. The hands of the pocket watch resting on top of the wooden box had quietly slipped past three in the afternoon.
Chapter 554