In winter, the branches of the tree displayed a withered gray color, looking even denser than the most fashionable comb in the fashion store on Begley Street. The rough marks and scars became denser as they followed the increasingly thick branches, merging into one large mass at the tree trunk.
Underneath the tree, ladies wearing wool skirts and fur shawls, carrying handbags, frowned delicately as they stepped on the scattered soil by the flower bed. They exhaled lightly, and their breath turned to frost in the cold air.
While they complained about the weather to their companions, the newspaper boy, cycling quickly past, stirred up a wind that made their skirt hems dance. They turned around, their eyes wide, only to see the boy's malicious smile.
"Dingling—" chimed the bicycle bell. A worn-out boot stepped on the snowy road, and a gloved hand disappeared into the boy's coat pocket, to pull out a newspaper and throw it into a mailbox.
The boy pulled his glove off and pulled his sleeve up. He shrugged, buffing against the cold, but still reached out a hand to knock on the mailbox's bell.
Just as he sighed and reached for the handle of his bicycle, one foot already on the pedal, he suddenly looked up at the house number on this estate and stopped his action.
Not much later, a man dressed like a butler emerged from the mansion's main gate, holding an old-fashioned newspaper clamp and a small parchment bag.
Seeing the man, the newspaper boy remained astride his bike with one foot on the ground, rubbing his hands together and exhaling a puff of frosty breath.
The butler approached him, took the newspaper just delivered by the boy, clamped it securely, and then handed the parchment bag to the newspaper boy.
The boy took off a glove and used his fingers to open the bag. As soon as he opened it, hot steam curled up from inside. Looking closely, he saw an apple pie with the soft filling still steaming. It had clearly just been heated by the fireplace.
The boy folded the parchment paper bag swiftly. Without minding the hot pie, he stuffed it directly into his coat. Then he grinned at the butler and said, "Thank Professor Rodriguez for me, he's a real good man!"
The butler smiled, too. Watching the young newspaper boy of about ten years old, he waved, then watched as he struggled to pedal away, disappearing at the end of the street.
Turning around, he pushed the mansion gate open, crossed the garden in front, and the entrance hall, and kept walking inwards, until he climbed the stairs, walked through the corridor on the second floor, and arrived at the study room at the back. He knocked, and a calm and powerful voice responded from within, "Come in."
Opening the door, he saw the afternoon sun rays scattered on the study floor, casting the shape of window grills, and clearly illuminating every fiber of the carpet.
Entering, he heard the rustling sound of the radio. Then the most common broadcaster's tone in the city was heard:
"...What is shocking is that Gorbachev officially signed the Large Disarmament order yesterday. From this action, we can see that the distant giant bear is gradually weakening and can hardly stand alone..."
"In this winter, the people there live especially cold. They are about to lose all initiative, and they can't even keep their once-proud army..."
"Gorbachev, a successor who was once put on the altar, did not show any talent that matches his reputation. Where will this great country go in the future? We can only wait and see..."
A hand reached out to the radio buttons, with a "click" sound, the news broadcast stopped. Shiller took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and leaned back in his chair, saying, "Thank you, Merkel, did you hear the news just now?"
"Yes, sir." The butler referred to as Merkel was taking an iron for ironing the newspaper out of the small storage room next to the study. He answered, back facing Shiller.
"What do you think will happen? Will it be as he said?"
Merkel paused while folding the newspaper, he looked up at Shiller but found that Shiller had started writing in a medical record again. Merkel lowered his head, ironing the newspaper flat as he said, "To be honest, I don't know. I have always had no opinion on this matter, sir."
Shiller once again put on his glasses, examining the words he had written, and said, "To be honest, when I asked Alfred to introduce a butler to me, I didn't expect the person he found to be so young."
"I thought that butlers are born like Alfred, with white hair and elegant demeanor." Shiller laughed, and Merkel also laughed. He said, "Sir, the butlers from Butler School tend to find patrons of similar age, and the patrons also prefer butlers of similar age."
"If the butler is too young, he may not only be unable to help but also become a burden. However, if the butler is too old, some family heads may worry that they might control their children."
"However..." Merkel shook his head and said, "hereditary butlers are a little different. They are deeply trusted by the family and often assist the grandfather, then the father, then the son. If they have a chance, they might also assist the grandson..."