To Charlotte Holmes, the human brain was like a limited attic. A clever person would know how to choose the proper furniture rather than cram it full of every sort of miscellaneous rubbish.
For the past nineteen years, emotions, romance, and ordinary love affairs had been banished among the most useless clutter in her attic.
Until she carried her luggage into the living room of 221B Baker Street.
Charlotte Holmes first noticed Russell Watson at the opening ceremony of Imperial College. She was late as well.
Not because she could not find the way, but because she had been busy with the move.
Her landlady, Mrs Hudson, was a very pleasant woman. She had told herself that the neighbour was a young man named Russell Watson.
He was a little mischievous, but good at heart—someone she could turn to if any problem arose.
At the time she paid it no particular attention. He was merely a good person. There were not many good people in London, yet there were still quite a few.
When she pushed open the back door of the lecture hall, the representative of the new students was delivering a speech on the stage.
Charlotte was not listening to the words. They were nothing more than a string of beautiful yet empty sentences that had been polished over and over again.
What truly caught her interest was the fact that he had been considering escaping through the back door.
And by chance she was standing in his way.
The hall was packed. Someone on the stage was reading from a script; some people were dozing. No one noticed the man in the corner trying to slip away. If she had not appeared, he might truly have escaped.
In that case they would have missed the first encounter of their lives.
After his escape plan failed, he quietly sat down again, yet Charlotte could sense almost no dissatisfaction in his eyes.
It was treated as something that did not really matter. Being interrupted was simply unavoidable—nothing of consequence.
At the time, she did not know that he would become her future roommate; she only realised it when, while observing him, she noticed the name tag.
This sparked a little interest in him, but it was merely the most basic interest one might feel toward a future roommate. If she discovered that this pleasant man was boring, she fully intended to cut off contact without hesitation.
As a first impression, Russell left Charlotte with nothing special. Just an ordinary man—neither more nor less.
Where had he gone afterwards? Well, that was not important. At the time, she had a case she needed to handle.
He seemed to be hiding some secret, yet the famous detective was not so bored that she needed to dig everything up. When the opening ceremony ended, she returned home; her roommate arrived a little later.
They talked, but there was almost no progress on the case.
When he came in and greeted her, Charlotte had not expected much from him. If she had not been lost in thought at that moment, she probably would not have spoken first.
As an assistant, Russell Watson's role in supporting deduction was actually negligible.
At least most of the time he was together with the refined young ladies of Imperial College, and these cases were merely topics of conversation to brighten campus life.
Yet it could not be denied that he and his closest friend, the famous detective, occasionally gave him considerable help.
But essentially all of that had been provided by Mary Morstan.
She seemed extremely skilled at viewing matters from a criminal's perspective.
As for Russell Watson… his role actually had nothing to do with deduction.
His true purpose was to keep Charlotte Holmes's brain—which might at any moment fly off to the edge of the universe or fall into a cold abyss—firmly anchored in the human world.
To a detective who considered herself a high-functioning antisocial personality, the rhythm of ordinary people's lives appeared boring and wasteful.
She would sometimes stay awake for three days and two nights just to confirm the precipitation reaction of a chemical reagent, play the violin in the middle of the night and make noise, and when she grew bored, even fire a revolver at the smiley-face patterns drawn on the wall. In this world there were almost no people who could endure living under the same roof as such a madwoman.
Even Mycroft regarded her as a hopeless nuisance.
Yet in 221B Baker Street the young man who always looked somewhat carefree accepted everything.
Of course there was also Mrs Hudson, but Mrs Hudson was… a little different.
When she was agitated about a case, he never shouted at her the way Mrs Hudson did, nor did he try to comfort her with non-logical, flowery words.
Instead, every foggy London morning he simply headed for the kitchen—always filled with the smell of nitric acid.
He warmed emotions that could not be expressed in words inside a freshly brewed small cup of black coffee and quietly handed it to her.
The handle of the cup was always placed in the most convenient spot for her; even when the desk was piled high with documents, the coffee cup was always neatly settled in a safe place.
Afterwards, such incidents became increasingly frequent.
When she stayed up late, footsteps would sound at the door at the proper time, and a glass of milk would appear at the corner of the table.
When she sat by the window thinking about a case, and her head began to ache, someone would draw the curtains halfway to block the dazzling sunlight.
These things were far too trivial and insignificant for anyone to mention them.
Yet Charlotte remembered every single one of them with extreme clarity.
Because she had never told anyone that she needed them.
These things were useless. They helped neither in solving cases, nor in logical thinking, nor in winning intellectual competitions. Yet they forced their way into her life and refused to leave.
Charlotte gradually noticed that several uncontrollable pieces of "rubbish" had begun to appear in her proud mental palace.
At first she grew naturally accustomed to his presence, the way one becomes accustomed to a perfectly ordinary magnifying glass.
A magnifying glass is not a daily necessity. One may grow used to using it, yet it is not absolutely required.
Charlotte had continued to think so until that particular case occurred.
It was the Holly David case. A pervert had been hiding in the house of the old lady next door and liked to peep at her through a secret door in the wall.
Charlotte remembered it clearly, because that was the first time the man had taken the initiative to act.
He skipped the afternoon classes at Imperial College solely in order to go to the victim's house, then telephoned afterwards to boast about it.
Extremely boring.
In the end he had to carry out the deduction process himself on Baker Street.
Yet at least this man had finally fulfilled his role as an assistant.
After hanging up the telephone, Charlotte waited for a while, expecting him to bring good news and praise her extraordinary intellect.
But she did not wait.
To Charlotte, those few minutes felt like days, even weeks.
At first she suspected the man had grown too full of himself, yet she immediately dismissed the thought.
He was not that sort of person.
Therefore Charlotte, who did not believe in misfortune, picked up the telephone and dialled again.
When there was no response from the other end, she reached a conclusion almost instantly.
Russel was in danger.
After reaching that conclusion, she did not know what she had been thinking.
The clues, reasoning and deductive chains that were normally arranged in perfect order all collapsed in that moment.
They had not been stolen by anyone; they had simply broken of their own accord.
She sat in the armchair, microphone still in her hand.
She stared at the coffee cup on the table. The cup had gone completely cold; the handle still faced her—the place he had set it that morning.
She suddenly realised something. If he were not here, no one would place this coffee cup here tomorrow morning.
To a first-class detective who valued logic and reason, panic was an extremely low-level emotion.
She ought to have sat on the sofa of Baker Street, calmly analysed the peeping tom's movements, then contacted Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard and ordered an arrest.
Yet her body made its own judgement ahead of her brain.
She grabbed her coat, loaded the pistol, thrust it into her pocket, and raced down the stairs so fast that she could not even hear Mrs Hudson's shout.
Sitting in the swaying carriage, Charlotte stared fixedly at the street scenery rushing past the window and unconsciously clenched the hem of her clothes.
At that moment she suddenly became aware of a fact she had deliberately been ignoring.
If one loses a magnifying glass, one can always find a new one at an antique shop.
But Russell Watson is not a magnifying glass.
When she later found him, he was kneeling on top of the stalker, pinning him down with one hand.
Seeing that he held the advantage and had not been seriously injured, Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief.
Then Lestrade arrived and stole the credit.
That case became the turning point at which Charlotte Holmes's mental world quietly began to clear an entire core area for Russell.
She began to grow accustomed to having another person around her—an unshakable shadow.
Yet when it came to romantic relationships, this genius who could discern a prime minister's affair at a glance was a complete novice.
The cause of the illness was Russell, but the woman who accelerated its progress was Mary Morstan.
At first Charlotte had not taken the young woman seriously.
A lady imprisoned by a heavy family background, an outstanding student wearing a perfect mask.
Even though the other side had repeatedly cooperated with investigations, Charlotte regarded it merely as a compromise Russell made in order to maintain daily human relationships at Imperial College.
Yet even Charlotte Holmes can make mistakes in deduction.
Those eyes that could see through the whole of London not only discerned clues at a crime scene; they also discerned the increasingly fierce, unconcealable possessiveness in Mary's eyes.
At first, just as she had said, she did not care.
To her, sexual relations between men and women were meaningless.
That was why she could casually accompany their dance at the launch party.
Yet she did not know when it began—she started to feel restless whenever he was not there.
Was it those two nights at Buckingham Palace?
The first time she saw him wearing that unfamiliar evening dress, he praised her and said she was "beautiful."
Or was it at the dinner table, when she unconsciously defended him in front of the King and Queen?
Or after dinner, when they discussed the plan against Moriarty, he offered to accompany her on a walk?
They went to the gardens of Buckingham Palace, sat in the garden pavilion, and looked at the flowers and the quiet lake under the moonlight.
He noticed she was cold and put his coat around her.
They did not stay long—only a short while—before returning to their respective rooms.
Charlotte thought about it for a long time that night.
She reached a conclusion.
She could not live without him.
This conclusion made her extremely uncomfortable. Not because there was anything wrong with the conclusion itself, but because it could not be proved by logical reasoning.
She knew the sun would rise tomorrow, she knew the Thames flowed into the sea, she knew coffee without sugar was bitter.
She knew even without evidence.
From then on, a room that was always lit appeared in her mental palace.
There was nothing of value in that room—no clues, no evidence, no logical paths.
There were only a few miscellaneous, useless things that she did not know how to classify.
Charlotte still remembered how she felt when Russell was not in the room at the moment Moriarty appeared.
Panic and anger.
These emotions were even stronger than those she had felt toward David Holly.
If the David Holly case had been an attempt to break his magnifying glass,
then this time, at Buckingham Palace, someone had lost a pet cat.
At the time she did not know that the phantom thief standing in front of her was Russell.
She quite naturally, instinctively, suspected that Moriarty had done something to Russell.
Driven by anger, she fired at the thief, yet the bullet missed, and she had not aimed for the head.
Charlotte still felt glad that she had not done so.
Afterwards, when Moriarty escaped, and Charlotte searched the whole of Buckingham Palace, finally finding Russell in that gazebo, she regained her composure and instinctively began to suspect that there must be some connection between Russell and Moriarty.
Yet when she saw him leaning against the pillar of the gazebo, sleeping in such a defenceless manner, she could not ask him anything.
It was the first time her brain had chosen of its own accord to stop working.
Charlotte stood in the cool night wind, gazing at the young man sleeping soundly wrapped in her coat.
According to her usual method, she ought to have stepped forward, used the sharpest words and the strictest logic to wake him, then gradually cornered him and exposed every clue between him and that phantom thief.
But she did not.
She watched him quietly for a while, then gently woke him.
Even when he showed an expression full of guilt, she comforted him.
Looking back now, her attempt to soothe him seems somewhat clumsy.
In the unknown territory of emotion, Charlotte Holmes truly did not know how to speak.
She feared that if she asked one more question or exposed one more lie, the roommate who had finally begun to fit into her life would vanish completely—like the morning fog that hangs over London's streets, liable to be blown away by the wind at any moment.
She was not good at expressing herself in words, so in most cases silence was the best response.
For the next few days this unspoken understanding became Charlotte's only place of rest.
She began to notice things she would previously have ignored.
For example, what time he got up every morning, how long he fried the eggs, whether when hanging out the laundry he turned all the collars of the shirts in the same direction.
These observations had no purpose. They were neither for solving cases nor out of habit. She simply wanted to look.
Let us look at the way ordinary people live.
Let us look at how a person who is neither a genius nor a madman, nor a special race, spends the twenty-four hours of a day in an orderly fashion.
Notice how he places the coffee cup in the corner so that it will not touch the case files, how he quietly slips to her door in the middle of the night, listens for a while, then leaves, and how when she is angry he says nothing and simply closes the window.
Yet even a safe refuge can still be struck by an uncontrollable storm.
That storm was named Mary Morstan.
Mary Morstan was an intelligent woman. Charlotte reached that conclusion the first time she carefully observed her.
That kind of intelligence was different from hers. It was not the talent of seeing through the essence of things at a glance. It was a more cunning, more patient intelligence—one that knew when to advance and when to retreat.
Mary would show weakness in front of Russell, reveal her vulnerabilities at the right moment, and make him feel needed.
Charlotte saw through all of these tricks clearly, yet she could not master any of them.
She did not know how to act cute or show weakness. She could only place a coffee cup within his reach, say "Come back soon" when he left, and remain silent when something ought to be said.
Charlotte had watched many times in the living room of Baker Street as Russell changed into his coat and prepared to leave for Imperial College.
She knew that the young woman who still had silver hair at the time was waiting for him there.
At those moments, Charlotte felt the greatest sense of powerlessness.
Just like that night at Buckingham Palace, she sat in the gazebo gazing at the lake surface rippling in the wind.
The fallen leaves were blown away by the wind, yet it was as though they had blown her heart away with them.
The leaves fell into the lake. She did not know where her own heart was flying.
She watched Mary effortlessly closing the distance with Russell, and watched the young woman make no attempt to hide her affection.
Mary Morstan's love was passionate and unconcealed.
That wealthy girl could express her feelings frankly and confidently ask for a hug even in an empty classroom.
All Charlotte could do was sit on the only sofa piled high with case files and hide the panic in her heart behind an appearance of careless arrogance.
She possessed neither Mary's natural social skills nor the straightforwardness that allowed her to express affection openly anytime, anywhere.
She was the sort of fool who could ruin even the smallest gesture of concern.
During the interview with The Times, when Russell was asked what he meant by "himself," he remained silent.
All she could say was one rather insensitive remark: "A necessary trouble."
These were the most emotional words she could utter.
Yet these words were probably less effective than Mary simply smiling and looking at him without saying anything.
Therefore she could only pour her feelings into something immaterial and elusive—an unspoken understanding.
She felt that there existed an unspoken understanding between herself and Russell.
After all, in this world only Russell could keep up with the leaps of her thought, and only Russell could, the moment she stretched out her hand, accurately offer tea or hot coffee.
That was why later, when she deduced from various clues that Russell was Moriarty…
her first reaction was to deny the possibility. And she deceived herself with the ridiculous reason that there was no evidence, even feeling fortunate.
It was at this time that Charlotte Holmes, for the first time in her nineteen years of life, began to question her own deductive reasoning.
These fragments had long since been assembled inside her mental palace into a complete and perfect truth.
Yet the famous detective herself had covered that mystery with a black cloth.
She lied to herself, saying there was no decisive physical evidence.
In reality, she knew better than anyone, yet she lacked the courage to speak it aloud.
She feared that once that identity stained with original sin was exposed, the Russell Watson who appeared every morning in the kitchen of 221B Baker Street wearing an apron and holding a baking mould would never appear again. In order to leave the image of her busily working in the kitchen every morning in people's memories, she voluntarily became completely blind.
Then Mycroft appeared.
He mercilessly exposed everything—including Moriarty's identity and her own.
Mycroft stated that she had changed, become more human, and begun to care about him.
She did not want to admit it, yet she could not deny it either.
Especially when she heard Mycroft speculate in detail about what he and Mary had done at Imperial College.
Her impatience almost reached its peak.
Mycroft said she was going to lose, yet she asked what she was losing.
Mycroft looked at her with an expression that made Charlotte instinctively want to hit him.
"You are truly an idiot when it comes to love."
He said.
Charlotte did not refute it, because she truly did not know how to refute it.
She tried to convey her feelings, talking endlessly on the bridge over the Thames, and finally summarised it as "Mycroft said that is what liking someone means."
In the box at the opera house she grabbed his bow tie and kissed him, then said, "It was a necessary experiment to confirm the atmosphere."
She knew these expressions were terrible—far worse than Mary's ordinary greetings and farewells.
Yet that was all she knew.
She used cases as excuses and experiments as reasons, employing clever tactics that deceived no one, to hide the true feelings deep in her heart.
She thought he had not noticed, yet perhaps he had noticed and simply said nothing.
Afterwards she often began wearing his clothes—sweaters, shirts, coats, anything.
Not because he had no clothes of his own, but because the fabric of the clothes carried his scent.
The smell of laundry soap mixed with a faint bitterness of coffee; when she buried her face in the collar, she felt him very close.
So close that she could hear the sound of his heart.
She knew it was foolish.
A genius detective hiding inside someone's clothes and sniffing them—if this story ever got out, everyone at Scotland Yard would laugh themselves silly.
Yet she did not care.
In any case, no one knew.
Except Mrs Hudson.
Whether this could be called fate she did not know. She had never believed in such things before, and she still did not… or rather, she actually believed in them to a certain extent.
She sometimes wondered: if she could keep only one thing in her mental palace, what would she leave?
She could not recall any of those cases that had astonished London, those deductions, those records of solved crimes.
She thought of the day in the carriage when he looked down at her.
The street lamps outside the window passed one by one, casting flickering light across his face.
She was reflected in his eyes.
Not Charlotte Holmes. Not that genius detective, nor Mycroft's younger sister.
It was Charlotte who exposed her own weakness in front of him—the one who was bad at speaking and hid her emotions inside sharp words.
She still could not express her feelings well.
She still did not know how to act cute, how to show weakness, or how to speak the kind of lovely words that melt a heart.
Afterwards Mary moved into Baker Street.
She had visited once before; at that time the two of them had exchanged a short conversation in Charlotte's living room.
She did not know what Mary had been thinking, yet Charlotte felt she had lost.
The second time was because Mary's blood-unrelated father had been hospitalised.
The moment she heard the news, she had already deduced the truth from the rumours alone.
Yet when she saw Mary walk boldly into Baker Street and witnessed Russell's reaction…
Charlotte realised she had lost again.
That night the relationship between Russell and Mary seemed to have progressed further.
She dyed her hair pale yellow and changed the colour of her eyes to emerald green.
She had lost three times in a row.
Yet there was nothing she could do.
Charlotte was accustomed to this silence, so when she later went alone to North Hills it was partly at the doctor's request and partly for her own reasons.
Despite Mary's warning of danger, she wanted—even if only for a moment—to escape from Baker Street.
She was not in a hurry, yet she walked quickly, afraid that if she slowed down she would have to turn back.
The snow fell heavily, and the roads were frozen. The coachman said the carriage could not climb the slope ahead.
Without hesitation, she got off the bus, paid the driver, and told him to wait there.
The driver said it was dangerous to be alone in this remote wilderness.
She said she would be fine and, without looking back, began climbing the mountain.
Just as she reached the intersection, a gunshot rang out.
Yet the one who followed could not understand human language.
Just as she reached the intersection, a gunshot rang out.
She knew the person would stand in front of her, so she did not dodge.
This thought had no logical basis; it was neither inference nor deduction—merely intuition.
She leaned against the wall and watched the figure in the black coat emerge from the blizzard. One hand seized the assassin's throat, and with swift, precise movements slammed him against the wall.
He was completely different from the person who usually fried eggs in the kitchen.
Charlotte stood there staring at the mask, and suddenly it struck her as funny.
She had spent months trying to prove something she already knew; she had simply not wanted to admit it.
When he removed the mask, snow fell onto his hair and immediately melted.
His eyes were as dark as before; in the gaze he turned on her, there was a quietness.
It was neither guilt nor pangs of conscience. It was something she herself could not clearly express—something that made her want to look at him a little longer.
She heard Russell tell the assassin that he had harmed his companion.
Charlotte almost laughed when she heard those words, yet somehow held it back.
It was not that she found the remark amusing; rather… she felt a strange sense of relief.
At that moment it was as though she realised that perhaps… she had not lost after all.
At least it had not been a crushing defeat.
Afterwards the two of them walked back together. The snow was still falling, and the road was very slippery.
He held her hand, then realised that holding hands was not enough and carried her on his back.
On the way home, riding in the carriage, the two of them talked a great deal. Suddenly Charlotte recalled the two rather clumsy kisses she had given him.
Then she thought of Mary.
Whether from jealousy or resentment, she also kissed him. And this time it looked like a proper kiss.
When they returned to 221B Baker Street, nothing seemed to have changed.
Yet in places invisible to the eye, some things had completely changed.
Afterwards… she seemed to have caught up with Mary, yet it came at a great cost…
She had been suffering from pain in her back and throat for some time.
She could not understand at all how that woman managed to do such things.
And that man was truly a physical monster.
Of course Charlotte did not dislike it. Rather, she had been prepared.
If there was a next time, she would make him beg for mercy.
Unfortunately, the next opportunity did not come, because Russell became busy again with Morstan family affairs.
Yet Benson, Philip and Adrian were not actually problems for him.
There was also Milverton.
When the media magnate Milverton threatened their peaceful life with those dirty secrets, Charlotte felt genuine anger for the first time.
She watched Russell protect those secrets, give that golden-haired heiress a stable future, and even protect her herself, gradually setting a trap so that the troublesome detective could end everything.
After shattering the illusion of Appled, Charlotte actually considered killing Milverton.
She never even told Mary that when Lestrade told her to get into the carriage to go to the Savoy Hotel, she had, while returning to her room to change, brought a gun.
Yet that gun was never used in the end.
That man shouldered almost all the work and responsibility alone.
She wanted to scold him, yet the moment she met his eyes at the hotel she swallowed the words that had reached her throat.
It was as though he had grown accustomed to doing so, as though she had grown accustomed to leaving everything to him.
With Moriarty's spectacular exit, he cleanly severed the tentacles that the media king had tried to stretch toward them.
Charlotte stood outside the Savoy Hotel watching the chaotic scene unfold. A thin cold sweat seeped from the palm that gripped the gun.
She suddenly realised that she and Russel were, in a certain sense, the same kind of people.
Neither of them was good at using flowery words to express love. They quietly hid the emotions deep in their hearts and simply handed each other warm coffee without fanfare.
Afterwards, everything settled down.
The legendary phantom thief gradually disappeared from the pages of Fleet Street newspapers.
In his place, Russell Watson settled on Baker Street and began working as a detective's assistant.
Of course, if she could constantly ignore the fact that the head of the Morstan family now openly occupied the other half of the living room, Charlotte would probably be more satisfied with the present cohabitation.
Mary Morstan was still a troublesome woman.
Every morning when she woke, she naturally looped her arms around Russell's neck and, in a sweet, husky voice at the dinner table, begged for a "good-morning kiss."
Every time Charlotte witnessed such a scene, she felt an instinctive irritation.
Yet she gradually grew wiser.
Unable to acquire Mary's unadorned frankness, she decided to define her own territory in her own way.
When Mary leaned languidly against Russell's right shoulder like an expensive Persian cat, Charlotte approached without a word.
She kicked off her slippers as though it were her natural right and nestled completely into Russell's left arm.
She had no need to say anything embarrassing such as "I want a hug too."
Resting her head against that familiar chest, the strong arm that naturally wrapped around her was the best answer for her.
Afterwards, in the battles on the bed, she was almost unilaterally bullied by that unbelievably strong man and had no chance to counter-attack at all.
Even if those shameful moans shattered without hesitation between his lips and teeth.
The next day, the detective suffering from pain still gritted her teeth and pretended to be as calm as possible in order to hide the overflowing sense of security in her heart.
Does love truly require an understanding that cannot be put into words?
Charlotte often gazed at Russell's profile sleeping under the oil lamp during the countless nights spent organising case files, turning this question over and over in her mind.
If emotion were compared to a stage…
Mary could dance the most magnificent waltz under the spotlight and sing the most moving aria.
In other words, all Charlotte Holmes could offer was probably a silent stage play.
In her hand she held only a black pencil.
Inside the brand-new detective novel Russell had given her, using that old pen studded with gold fragments, she added countless indispensable footnotes to the otherwise unremarkable introduction of this assistant.
Charlotte turned her gaze away from the snowy scenery outside the window and gently rested her chin on the collar of Russell's shirt. The collar still carried a faint trace of his body heat.
The ice and snow of London were beginning to melt.
She suddenly realised that she felt as though she owed something.
The man had probably forgotten, yet she owed him.
There was still an experimental result awaiting its conclusion.
She did not like expressing her feelings the way ordinary girls did.
Yet once a promise had been made, it must be kept.
"Russell."
Charlotte turned her face and called to the man who was absorbed in writing a letter to her.
"Hmm?"
Russell looked up at Charlotte. "What is it?"
"Do you remember the result of the experiment we spoke about earlier?"
"Experiment…" Russell paused for a moment, then realised. "You mean that?"
"Yes. The result is out."
Charlotte nodded and looked at him with a slightly tense voice.
Would you like to hear it?
Hearing this, the man set down his pen and smiled as he looked at her.
"If you wish to say it."
Charlotte drew a deep breath.
"Mycroft said it was affection, but I now refute that conclusion. It is not affection."
"Then what is it?"
"A habit."
Charlotte said, then sighed a little sentimentally.
"Habit is a terrifying thing. Before you notice, it makes special things feel ordinary—just like you and me."
She spoke quietly.
"I have grown accustomed to standing by your side, accustomed to the breakfasts you make and the coffee you brew, and I had come to take all of these things for granted.
I had grown so accustomed that I overlooked several things I ought to have told you long ago."
She paused for a moment, then, under Russell's gaze, the famous detective uttered her final conclusion about love.
"—I love you."
[END]
PS: That's the end, guys.