Later that night, it snowed again in Gotham. Or rather, it was sleet. This kind of weather sounded especially strange—not as dense as rain, nor as quiet as snowfall. It sounded like urgent drumbeats; when ice pellets struck the windows, they were like crystals on a chandelier endlessly shattering.
The firelight in the hearth flickered constantly. The entire manor remained so empty and quiet. Clark truly could not stand such deathly silence. He had barely sat down before he could not help asking, "Is there a coffee maker? I want to make a cup of coffee."
"Alfred went home on vacation. Sorry, there's no one to serve you. The coffee maker is in the kitchen," Bruce said without looking up.
Clark stood and went to the kitchen to make coffee. The moment he opened a cabinet, coffee beans from all over the world practically kissed him on the face. He pulled out one bag and did not recognize the language; then another, which looked like cat food; then another, which smelled like the Minnesota pickles his mother made; and finally, one that actually looked like coffee beans.
But the problem was that it was a brand-new bag. Judging by the production date, it seemed to have been shipped from Africa only yesterday. The packaging was very well sealed, so it required scissors. Clark searched the kitchen for quite a while and found only kitchen scissors.
He knew wealthy families like this were particular about such things: scissors were divided into vegetable scissors and meat scissors, while knives were separated for raw food and cooked food. He felt he could not use the kitchen scissors hanging beside the cleavers to cut open a coffee bean package, so he began rummaging through the cabinets again.
After searching for a long time without