His "home" is in the attic of a crooked wooden building at the end of the alley.
Pushing open the creaking wooden door, the smell of turpentine and inferior paint hit my face. The room was small, and the only windows were covered with thick oil paper, letting in dim light. On the left were piles of easels, stretched canvases, and various paint cans—that was his apparent job as an icon painter who barely made a living.
On the right, a mountain of messy manuscripts is piled up. The covers of manuscripts on mathematics, geometry, and engineering were carefully replaced with "Commentaries on Holy Scripture" or "Acts of Saints."
Leon locked the door, leaned against the door panel, and let out a long breath. He took out the piece of paper that he had been holding on to and was slightly soft with sweat.
There were no pictures on the paper, just rows of closely arranged symbols and calculations. There is a line written at the top:
"Healing (primary) energy efficiency optimization model - seventh iteration verification."
Below is a complex differential equation, as well as a geometric composition.
This is his secret, his evidence of guilt, and the only inheritance left to him by his dead adoptive father - a crazy question: "If even divine grace can be described mathematically, then who is the benefactor?"
Before he died, the old painter held Leon's hand and stared wide-eyed: "They... They don't let me ask... Children, lines don't lie... But the person who interprets them does..."
