My feet found their way back to the library once more, a cup of black tea and a small plate of cookies placed before me, while the man who called himself the Memory Manager quietly brewed his tea.
The fragrance of the black tea, the feel of the teacup, the sound of the cup and saucer—all were exactly like the real thing; as long as I didn't deliberately remind myself that everything before me wasn't real, I could easily enjoy the peace and comfort the tea provided.
At this moment, Roland indeed needed a drink. It wasn't a physical need, but a mental one—a desire to release inner emotions through some manner of action, to regain psychological balance.
There was a need, and there was ready-made black tea, yet he had no intention of touching that cup of black tea at all.
The root of all tragedy, the truth hidden behind the curtain turned out to be—
