Drip …
Drip …
Drip …
The sound of liquid dripping from the tube.
It was an infusion bottle hanging on an iron shelf.
A month later, in the dilapidated Saint-Mango Hospital.
Hoffa woke up from his endless nightmare. The sun shone on his face through the fluttering curtains.
He froze for a moment. The light was a little dazzling.
He raised his palm and tried to block the sun.
But the sun shone through his thin white fingers on his face.
There were some catheters and needles connected to his hand.
He turned his head to look.
On the other side of him, Fatir Dracath was lying on the hospital bed.
She was unconscious and her eyes were closed. Her face couldn't be seen clearly.
Hoffa pulled off the catheter in his hand and stood up from the hospital bed.
The cold and hard tiles on the floor gave him a sense of reality.
He slowly walked out of the door. At first, his steps were a little unsteady as he held onto the wall. But slowly, he stopped holding onto the wall.
Some of the nurses in the hospital saw Hoffa get up and tried to pull him back, but he slowly and firmly pushed them away.
He walked out of the hospital gate.
The sun was dazzling and there were no clouds in sight.
He saw many people waiting for him at the door. There was Miranda, Dumbledore, Slughorn, his classmates from Hogwarts, William, Antonio, and many other students.
Their expressions were either expectant, hopeful, worried, or silent. But without exception, they were all so far away from him.
They seemed to be talking about something.
Their voices were faint.
Hoffa glanced at those people, turned his head, and disappeared into the air. He didn't stop and walked straight out of the hospital.
On the streets of London, there were many things waiting to be done.
Some executives from the Ministry of Magic waved their wands and repaired the buildings damaged by the crazy war. At the same time, another group of employees from the Department of Magic were patiently modifying the memories of Muggles.
On the banks of the River Thames, crowds gathered around the half-destroyed Big Ben and some other buildings. As they pointed at the ruins, they discussed the crazy German bombing of London with concern.
"Hey, how many planes did you see flying in the sky that day?"
"One hundred or two hundred?"
"Wow, the entire sky seemed to be burning that day."
"How scary … I remember that I had a nightmare that day."
"Is that so? I had a nightmare too."
"Hey, what nightmare did you have?"
"In my dream, I was turned into an animal by a dragon."
"Eh, I had a similar dream before."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Hahaha …"
The passers-by were talking when suddenly, their gazes were attracted by a figure walking over from afar.
The figure had gray hair and golden eyes. He looked like a young man. The most peculiar thing was his attire.
He was wearing a blue and white striped hospital gown.
He was barefoot.
He was like a patient who had run away from a mental hospital.
The crowd looked at the young man who was wandering on the street like a lonely ghost with surprised eyes.
They whispered, "Who is that man?"
"Why are you wearing this kind of clothes …"
"He looks like a madman …"
"Don't mind him. Stay away from him."
Everyone was walking in the opposite direction of Hoffa. He was alone in the bustling crowd. He turned a deaf ear to the voices and discussions around him and only walked on his own path.
After walking for an unknown amount of time, he arrived at a half-burned theater.
He removed the wooden beam at the door.
Walking along the red carpet scattered on the ground, Hoffa walked in the empty theater, his fingers slowly moving across the dusty props.
The black robe, the rusty dagger …
The sun shone through the ceiling skylight and fell on his body. From beginning to end, his expression did not change at all.
Finally, he walked to the auditorium, pulled out a chair, and sat down. He just looked at the empty stage, imagining the drama that could have happened on it, imagining his failed life, and imagining the words that he never said.
He did not move until the sun set.
He did not move until the moonlight shone on the ground.
He did not move until dawn broke through the darkness. He just looked at the stage silently, like a clay statue, as if he could sit here until he was old.
At this time.
Someone patted him on the shoulder.
The youth turned around.
The morning sun shone through his hair.
He raised his head gently.
His eyes were full of hope.
But there was no one beside him.
Only Tindal's light shone on his shoulder through the broken ceiling.
The light in his eyes dimmed slightly. After some thought, he stood up, took one last look at the stage, and turned to leave.
Then, he followed some unknown guidance and walked to the exit filled with sunlight. He passed through the alleys with cables, through the ruins of the city, through the meadows with green sprouts, and through the forests where everything grew.
Finally, he came to a hillside.
On the hillside, there were patches of white roses.
Far away on the hillside, an unknown funeral was being held.
Some black carriages stopped in the distance, and some people wearing white flowers on their chests alighted. They followed suit, their faces blurred, as if they were crying.
Hoffa stood under the oak tree, looking at the people coming and going on the hillside in the distance, as silent as a statue.
A breeze blew, the leaves danced, and his clothes ruffled.
From beginning to end, he did not get close to that place.
He just looked into the distance.
He watched them pray, offer flowers, and give well-wishes.
Or do some other activities.
Until the people in the distance walked back to the carriages and disappeared at the end of the road.
Finally, he pursed his lips, and his eyes could not help but turn red. But he forcibly stopped his impulse. Even though his heart was like a tsunami, he did not show it on his face.
At this moment, he sensed an inconceivable absurdity. But under this absurdity, he also experienced a kind of truth.
It was a kind of simplicity.
But it was pure emotion.
This emotion made him understand the meaning of life.
He should live, live with all his strength.
He should live with the cracks that the world gave him life, use his damaged palm to heal the wounds of his heart, stubbornly welcome hope, embrace the light of the moment, and no longer place his hopes on an empty utopia. He should be uplifted, because survival itself was the most powerful resistance against the world.
Finally, the youth rubbed his eyes and raised his head.
He resolutely turned and walked into the distance.
He was barefoot, wearing simple clothes. He walked through the dancing shadows of the trees, through the steep forest of the lonely mountain, and through the shadows of the leaves of the brilliant spring day.
His thin figure was elongated in the forest.
He was gloomy and firm, lonely and stubborn.
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