When the click of high heels passed through the empty corridor, it always carried a soft echo, somewhat like the tremor produced by piano keys inside the instrument.
With a creak, the door opened. Mrs. Miller, carrying tea, said in surprise, "Professor Schiller, why are you standing so close to the fireplace?"
Then she looked at Schiller's hand. He was holding a log, and Mrs. Miller sighed helplessly. "Sir, the wood in the fireplace has all been specially treated. Fresh wood you picked up outside won't burn."
"Is that so?" Schiller, standing by the fireplace, casually tossed the wood inside, shut the metal grate in front of it, and walked toward the armchair beside the coffee table. Looking at Mrs. Miller, he said, "Sorry, ma'am, who are you again?"
"Professor Schiller, in the four hours since you returned to the hospital, you've asked me that question six times. And in those four hours, I've only come in six times."
Mrs. Miller set the teapot and cups on the coffee table and looked at Schiller. "I truly hope you're messing with me, because if you really have face blindness, this question may haunt me for the rest of my life."
With that, she turned toward the door. But just as she reached for the handle, the door that was pushed open nearly hit her.
Mrs. Miller raised an irritated eyebrow, about to scold whoever it was, only to discover that it was Bruce. Her expression immediately softened, and she tilted her head toward the room. "Mr. Wayne, you came at the perfect time. The tea's just been made."
Bruce nodded to Mrs. Miller and stepped aside. Only after she left did Bruce enter, turning around to gently close the door.
Schiller glanced up at him, pointed to the sofa opposite him,