# Chapter 47
There might be an engineer I used to know who’s still active. Maybe someone who trained disciples and placed them in the imperial palace. It’s late now, so I should think about ways to contact them tomorrow.
I couldn’t find it even after searching all five bookshelves in the study. I asked Pini to look through all the papers in the storage room, but Pini couldn’t find it either.
I should start by breaking my habit of throwing everything away.
Even when I finally found contact information, most of them had already died or disappeared long ago. Somehow, not a single engineer had lived a long life.
Stories I knew nothing about continued to unfold. It was hard to believe we had lived in the same house during this period.
Plin wasn’t a particularly sociable person. He didn’t really have any close acquaintances. So what reason would he have to try so hard to contact someone without even having their contact information? Especially trying to find an engineer at his former workplace.
Plin wasn’t the type to ask others for help like this. He was someone who would solve problems on his own, even if it meant taking a loss. Even while worrying about me like this, in front of me he just said…
‘You’ll do well.’
I recalled Plin’s words from the year before I left for the imperial palace. Those words I mulled over every day while staying at the palace.
Now I could understand what Plin meant when he said those words to me. Trusting and letting go of a child leaving his arms. It was Plin’s affection.
Even after I left for the imperial palace, my name was consistently mentioned in his diary. As it moved to a new journal, the frequency increased significantly. As I approached the end of the diary, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to keep reading Plin’s records or not. While I was curious about what thoughts Plin had as he closed his eyes for the last time, my heart grew heavy as the debt I had forgotten became clearly apparent.
When I picked up the last diary, I was afraid to open it. I never saw Plin’s final moments. After entering the imperial palace, I became busy and met Plin in person less and less, mostly exchanging greetings by letter. Even those letters couldn’t convey tender feelings or detailed news. Neither Plin nor I was particularly affectionate.
After fiddling with the corner of the diary for a while, I carefully opened the first page. Unlike the other diaries that were filled to the last page, the final diary was only about half filled. Among those contents, what caught my eye first was about Plin’s physical condition.
Plin was a person with even greater passion for engineering than me. As one of the pioneering engineers, he must have had many occasions to handle dangerous materials, but Plin wasn’t someone who cared about such things. He didn’t know how to take care of his body, and once he focused on something, he wouldn’t get up from his chair until he was satisfied, no matter who tried to stop him. His body couldn’t endure it.
I knew about Plin’s physical condition, but the period when his health noticeably deteriorated was different from my memory. Much earlier than I had thought, Plin’s diary contained entries about his health condition.
Pini asked if I should call Arden. I know how busy that child must be there with nothing to his name, how could I live selfishly according to my own desires?
I first heard about Plin’s condition in my third year as an imperial engineer, but the date in the diary was from earlier.
As I entered my third year, I became involved in a secret project, and from then on I became incomparably busier than before. Apart from being physically busy, I also lost the confidence to face Plin proudly, which naturally reduced my visits home. A few months later, Plin passed away.
As the diary progressed, the proportion of stories about me grew larger.
His letters always say he’s fine. If only I could hear his voice, I could tell if he’s really doing well.
It upsets me knowing how he must be enduring there. He’s a child who doesn’t know how to give up and compromise like I do. He’s more amazing than me in that way, but I worry because he doesn’t seem to know how to escape from pain.
If I had endured there longer, if I had lived as a slightly more remarkable engineer, I could have been of some help to him.
The child said he was fine, but a parent’s heart doesn’t feel the same. It seems I can’t help but worry even if he says he’s doing well.
Something welled up inside me with each line I read. Then suddenly, I stopped at one word. Parent’s heart. That single word captured my thoughts for a long time. Although I had entered as Plin’s adopted son, I had never called him father. Likewise, when Plin introduced me to others, he only introduced me by name, never as his son.
I was captured again by a fundamental question. Why did Plin take me in? I had wondered about this before and looked into it briefly, but I couldn’t find anything significant. I opened one of the old diaries again. The randomly opened page had the sentence I had seen earlier.
The director was right. The child had talent for alchemy. It’s a good foundation for becoming an engineer.
The diary from the year Plin first took me in. I slowly went back further.
I should visit the orphanage tomorrow.
I had no intention of adopting a child. I’m worried that if the director fails after trying so actively to place the child for adoption, the child might get mistreated.
I know it’s meddlesome, but having a child at home might make it less desolate.
The orphanage director sent another letter. It’s the same content as before.
A personal letter arrived from the director of the orphanage I was sponsoring. He recommended that I raise as a disciple a child who likes engineering and seems to have talent for alchemy.
I was suspicious of many things, like what insight the director had to recognize talent in alchemy and how an orphanage child came to know about engineering. Above all, I had no intention of raising a disciple.
The diary I went through in reverse order didn’t contain anything extraordinary. There was no solemn resolution, no momentous catalyst. Just a little concern and the expectation that the house might be less desolate. I went back to the later pages.
His name is Arden. Age seven. Unlike what I thought, he doesn’t mess around and is quiet, but often seems lost in thought, staring blankly even when called.
Tears that had only formed inside finally burst out. I hurriedly moved the diary away from the teardrops falling on the old ink. I didn’t even meet the modest reason. Yet Plin wrote in his diary as if he were my parent.
Just as I think of Rite, I too was someone’s precious child.
“Ah… ugh… haah…”
It felt suffocating, like something was lodged inside me. I wanted to let it out, but I kept hesitating for fear Rite might hear if I made a loud noise. All that came from my open mouth were short groans.
I sat down weakly and pounded my chest hard. If only humans could be disassembled and reassembled like machines. If I could open my chest, clear out the blockages inside, and neatly organize the interior, it would be easier.
‘I’m not a damn machine!’
‘If I behave in a way Arden doesn’t like, don’t think about taking me apart and reassembling me, try to think about why that bastard is acting that way.’
Rite’s outcry echoed in my ears. Rite was so different from me. The reason things kept getting awkward, unlike my relationship with Plin, might lie in those differences.
After Plin died, I consciously tried not to think about him much, but raising Rite naturally made me recall him.
Even though we weren’t particularly close or intimate, when I think about it, Plin gave me so many things. The comfort of not having to worry about daily meals, the environment to dream of becoming an engineer, and the stability of having a home to return to anytime.
Realizing this too late, I felt sorry and wanted to give back to Rite in his place. I wanted to be such a presence for Rite too. Looking back, I wanted to remain as someone he would miss and feel warmth towards.
Then suddenly, I realized this is how the world goes around. All guardians probably look after their children while recalling their own guardians. Those without parents probably try hard to follow others, watching them to make sure the children don’t feel that empty space. I’m fortunate to have had Plin. That’s what I thought.
Not once in my life had I thought of myself as an affectionate person. I thought both Plin and I had brusque personalities. But while raising Rite, I felt the considerations Plin must have shown me. I experienced firsthand how difficult it is to wait patiently for a child’s words instead of getting angry or snapping at them when they cry, when they don’t speak, when they refuse to eat. Plin was a considerate person, and I too could become this affectionate. If Plin could do it, I could do it too. After all, I grew up watching Plin.
