The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 280

"What did you mean when you said she served you with her life?"

Garrison's voice wasn't loud, but it froze the air in the living room. Rosemary Hayes's hand trembled, spilling a few drops of tea onto the blanket across her lap.

"I... I was just exaggerating," she deflected, her pitch unnaturally high. "You're overthinking things, Garrison. She... she just did me a small favor."

"What kind of favor?"

Rosemary set her teacup on the coffee table, tracing the rim without meeting his eyes. "She... she knew how to dive, didn't she? She just helped me retrieve something from the water."

"Retrieve what?" Garrison refused to let it go.

"Just... some old data from my former lab." She spoke faster, like a woman sprinting through a minefield. "You know, the lab I worked at when I was younger. It was shut down, and I left some things behind."

"A lab?" Garrison frowned. The word triggered something buried deep in his memories, like a fuse suddenly sparking to life. "What lab?"

Rosemary didn't answer.

Her gaze darted from the coffee table to the curtains, then to the ceiling...

Garrison's heart sank. He remembered. His mother wasn't just a university administrator in her youth—she had worked for the Department of Energy at a classified nuclear facility hidden deep in the southwestern mountains, code-named the 719 Research Station. She researched the separation and purification of radioactive isotopes.

As a child, he had found her old ID badge at the bottom of a trunk, bearing an unfamiliar insignia and the words "Classified Personnel." Later, the facility was shut down, and the 719 Research Station was permanently closed. She transferred to a local college, and that era of her life was erased, never spoken of again.

But the 719 Research Station wasn't just "closed."

It was sealed off after an emergency.

"The 719 Research Station," Garrison said, his voice dropping into a flat statement. "Your lab was the 719 Research Station."

Rosemary visibly tensed.

"Why was it shut down?" he asked, biting off every word.

"...A fountain pen."

Garrison thought he misheard.

"What?"

"A fountain pen," Rosemary repeated, a little louder this time, layering a defensive edge into her tone. "The one my father left me. He slipped it into my pocket the day I reported to the 719 Research Station, and I kept it in my desk drawer. When we evacuated, we were in such a rush, I forgot it."

Garrison felt a throbbing ache pulse at his temples.

"All for a pen?"

"It wasn't just a pen!" Rosemary looked up, her eyes red—not from guilt, but from the indignity of being interrogated by her own son.

"It was the only thing I had left of my father! Before I went into the mountains, he told me, 'Rosemary, serve your country well. Let this pen keep you company, as if I'm right there with you.' When we evacuated, the entire facility was in chaos. The alarms blared for three hours, and everyone was running for their lives. I forgot it in my drawer. It was my father's dying keepsake—wasn't I supposed to get it back?"