Chapter 95 – The Algorithm of His Silence
POV: Anastasia Celeste Volkov
She hadn't meant to leave for five days.
But meaning was irrelevant.
There were tasks.
People.
Failures to anticipate.
Worlds to rebuild before they broke.
And so, five days passed.
Without ceremony.
Without remorse.
Without thinking of the boy she had left behind.
Except—
She had.
She had thought of him.
Not constantly.
Not obsessively.
But precisely.
Like an equation marked in the corner of her mind.
Always solvable.
Never solved.
She had gone to Milan first.
The second AI prototype needed recalibration.
The third required supervised training.
The first—her father's—had stopped responding to silent commands.
Three billion-dollar problems.
Three sets of eyes watching her as if she were already legend.
She worked forty-eight hours straight.
Slept for three.
Woke with blood in her mouth from biting the inside of her cheek.
Still no message from him.
She hadn't expected one.
He knew better.
On the fourth day, she stood inside the Vatican Archives.
The director was late.
She waited three minutes.
Left.
As she stepped into the car, the AI beside her spoke.
"He is still inside your home."
She didn't answer.
The AI wasn't asking.
Day five.
She visited the ruins beneath Rome.
Not for nostalgia.
But for silence.
The kind of silence only history could hold.
Ancient blood on cracked stones.
Bones of empires.
Loss without tears.
She understood that kind of silence.
She had been raised on it.
At 2:03 a.m., she returned to Florence.
No announcement.
No footsteps echoing through the halls.
The security system blinked once. Then accepted her.
The door opened like it remembered her weight.
And she stepped inside.
He was still there.
She knew without seeing him.
The guest room door was closed.
The air was warmer than usual—
He always kept it two degrees higher.
A single teacup sat in the sink.
Washed.
Dried.
Put back in the wrong place.
Her fingers brushed against the shelf.
Paused.
Then withdrew.
She crossed the hall and entered her room.
The bed hadn't been touched.
Of course not.
He would never.
Not unless told.
Not unless broken.
She sat by the window.
Unclipped her hair.
Leaned her head back.
And let the silence settle.
Not peace.
But a decision.
She would let him stay.
A little longer.
Not because she wanted him to.
Not because she needed him to.
But because—
He had not begged.
Not followed.
Not intruded.
He had obeyed.
Perfectly.
Like a ghost that loved too quietly to haunt.
The AI in her room flickered on.
Waited.
She spoke without opening her eyes.
"Tell him nothing."
"Understood."
"Don't open the door unless I say so."
"Understood."
"Monitor his vitals. If he falls below baseline, alert me."
Pause.
"Understood."
She didn't know if she was cruel.
Or if he was simply patient enough to endure it.
But one thing was clear.
He was still there.
And she—
Was letting him be.