Professor Grothendieck's gravestone stood in an inconspicuous corner of the cemetery, covered in dust. It looked as though no one had visited it for a very long time.
Having stopped interacting with people in his later years, only a very few friends knew where he lived. Most people did not even know where he had been buried.
According to the old priest, apart from the final two months of his life, Grothendieck had come here to pray almost every weekend.
Faced with the old man's rambling sermon, Lu Zhou merely nodded, then placed the bouquet before the gravestone.
He offered the great scholar a blessing in his heart in his own way and thanked him for leaving behind those precious materials. Then Lu Zhou turned and left.
It was not that he did not want to stay longer.
He simply did not want to make things difficult for Director Giacobino beside him by forcing him to stand there with a sorrowful, profound expression.
There was really nothing to be sad about. Birth, aging, illness, and death were all part of life. Being able to spend one's remaining years living as one pleased was something many people could only envy. His seclusion had been a tremendous loss to the mathematical community, but for himself, it might not have been an unfortunate thing.
After leaving the cemetery, Lu Zhou followed the old priest to his home not far from the church and saw the remaining materials piled up in his garage.
He used the word "pile" because there truly was a great deal of material, like a small mountain.
It was said that in eighteenth-century Europe, when academic exchange was underdeveloped, mathematicians mostly relied on letters and posthumous manuscripts to "publish" their research results. Lu Zhou had not expected to see such