Tick...

Tick...

Tick...

The sound of liquid dripping from the pipes.

That's an infusion bottle hanging on an iron shelf.

A month later, the dilapidated St. Mungo's Hospital.

Hoffa woke up from his endless nightmare, and the sun shone on his face through the flying curtains.

He was stunned for a moment, the light was a bit dazzling.

He raised his palms to try to block the sun.

But the sun shined through his thin white fingers and onto his face.

There are some catheters and needles attached to the hand.

He looked sideways.

On the other side of him, Fatil de Lasese was lying on the hospital bed.

He was unconscious, his eyes were closed tightly, and he couldn't see clearly.

Hoffa pulled the catheter off his hand and stood up from the hospital bed.

The cold and hard tiles on the ground gave him a real touch on his bare feet.

He walked slowly toward the door, staggering slightly at first, holding on to the wall. But slowly, he stopped holding on to the wall.

Some hospital nurses saw Hoffa getting up and tried to grab him, but he slowly but firmly pushed him away.

Walk out of the hospital door.

The sun is dazzling and there are no clouds in the sky.

He saw many people waiting for him at the door, including Miranda, Dumbledore, Slughorn, his classmates at Hogwarts, William, Antonio, and many, many other students.

Their expressions were either expectant, hopeful, worried, or silent. But without exception, they were all so far away from themselves.

What do they seem to be saying.

The sound is ethereal.

After Hoffa glanced at those people, he turned his head and disappeared into the air. Without making any stop, he walked straight out of the hospital.

On the streets of London, everything is in ruins.

Some Ministry of Magic executives waved their wands and repaired the buildings damaged by the crazy war. At the same time, another group of employees from the Department for the Prohibition of the Abuse of Magic were tirelessly modifying the memories of Muggles.

Along the Thames River, crowds of people crowded around the half-exploded Big Ben and some other buildings. They pointed at the ruins and talked sadly about Germany's crazy bombing of London.

"Hey, how many planes did you see flying over that day?"

"A hundred or two hundred?"

"Oh, the whole sky seemed to be on fire that day."

"It was really scary...I remember, I had a nightmare that day."

"Yeah, I had a nightmare too."

"Hey, what kind of nightmare did you have?"

"In the dream, I was turned into an animal by a dragon."

"Hey, I've had a similar dream too."

"Really?"

"real."

"Hahaha......"

The passers-by were talking when suddenly their eyes were attracted by a figure walking in the distance.

The figure had gray hair, golden eyes, and looked like a young man. The most peculiar thing was his outfit.

He was wearing a blue and white striped hospital gown.

Bare feet.

Like a runaway from a mental hospital.

The crowd looked at this young man wandering the streets with surprised eyes like a lonely ghost.

They whispered: "Who is that person?"

"Why do you wear this kind of clothes..."

"Seems like a madman..."

"Leave him alone, stay away from him."

Everyone was walking in the opposite direction to Hoffa. He walked alone among the bustling crowds. He ignored the voices and comments around him and only walked the path under his feet.

After walking for who knows how long, he came to a half-burned theater.

Remove the wooden beams at the door.

Following the red carpet scattered on the floor, Hoffa walked in the empty theater, his fingers slowly passing over the dusty props.

That black robe, the blunt dagger...

The sun shone in from the skylight of the ceiling and hit him. From the beginning to the end, his expression did not change at all.

Finally, he walked to the auditorium, pulled out a chair and sat on it. He just looked at the empty stage, imagining the drama that might happen above, imagining his failed life, and imagining the words that had never been spoken.

He didn't move until the sun went down.

Until the moonlight enveloped the earth, he still did not move.

Until dawn broke through the darkness, he did not change at all. He just looked at the stage silently, like a clay statue, as if he could sit here until he grows old.

At this time.

Someone tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

The boy turned around

The morning sun passed through his hair

He raised his head gently

His eyes were full of hope.

But there was no one around.

Only Tyndall's light spot shone on his shoulder through the damage to the ceiling.

The light in his eyes dimmed slightly. After thinking about it, he stood up, took one last look at the stage, and turned to leave.

Then, he followed some unknown guidance and walked towards the sun-drenched exit, passed through alleys tangled with cables, passed through cities full of ruins, passed through grasslands where green buds grew, and passed through woods where everything grew.

.

Finally, he came to a hillside.

On the hillside, patches of white roses bloomed.

Far away on the hillside, an unknown funeral was being held.

Some black Thestral carriages stopped in the distance, and some people wearing white flowers on their chests got out of the carriages. They followed suit, their faces blurred, and they seemed to be crying.

Hoffa stood under the oak tree, looking at the crowds of people coming and going on the hillside in the distance, as silent as a sculpture.

The breeze blows, the leaves are flying, and the clothes are fluttering.

From beginning to end, he never came close to that place.

Just looking into the distance.

Watch them pray, lay flowers, and give congratulations.

Or do some other activities.

Until the crowds of people in the distance re-entered the Yeqi carriage and disappeared at the end of the road.

Finally, he pursed his lips, and his eyes turned red because he couldn't help it. But he stopped the impulse abruptly. Although the crazy fluctuations in his heart were like a tsunami, there was no trace of it on his face.

At this moment, he noticed some incredible absurdity, but beneath this absurdity, he also experienced a kind of reality.

That's a kind of simplicity.

But pure emotion.

This emotion made him understand the meaning of life.

He should live and live with all his strength.

Live with the cracks that the world gives life to, heal the scars of the soul with damaged palms, stubbornly face hope, embrace the light of the moment, no longer place hope in an illusory utopia, and be high-spirited, because survival itself is a reflection of the world.

The most powerful resistance.

Finally, the young man rubbed his eyes and raised his head.

He turned around and walked away resolutely.

Barefooted and wearing simple clothes, he walked through the dancing shadows of the trees, through the steep sloping woodland of this lonely mountain, and through the shadows of the brilliant spring leaves.

The thin figure stretched out among the trees.
Chapter completed!