There was no moonlight that night, and the stars were bright in the night sky.
Near midnight, Hestad came to St. Anne's Abbey again. Not far behind the black memorial stone, a paper rose and a glass bell were buried in the ground - this was the unmarked tomb she erected for the deceased.
She silently lit the candle in front of the tomb, and the soft halo illuminated this small piece of land. Hesta, who had entered bullet time, just sat in front of the tomb. She opened a book of poetry, stroked the thin pages, and finally stopped at the dog-eared page tonight.
With this weak candlelight, she read poems to her mother in a low voice.
"Flowers live in people's hearts, and I secretly read in their books, about those unmarked borders, about those buds that have not bloomed...
"I understand the soul, like lavender, I understand the girl of mimosa, I understand the rose, and how to use her to weave a ribbon in the heart..."
On winter nights, every breath Hesta exhaled turned into a faint white mist. She used to feel hot in her eyes at this moment, and tears would well up in her eyes.
But not anymore, a kind of peace spread in her heart.
Although everything to be done tonight has not yet begun, this peace is already like a floating board in the rapids. It briefly separates the pain of the past from the cruel and bloody coming, and warmly lifts her up.
Hesta read slowly, her eyes following the words through the laurel branches, through the gaps in the black leaves, through the lily disks, until the end of the poem.
"Those who have passed away and been forgotten are given the language of acacia white. And my soul, this old stove, grows such a withered grass - failure." (1)
Hesta was silent for a moment, then raised her head, "I read this poem from Ava a few days ago, Mom, I don't know why, I feel it hit me... Will you like this poem?"
The night wind suddenly picked up and blew away the second half of Hesta's words. The cold wind brought a needle-like touch and made the book of poems in her hand rattle.
She felt a little tired, and the coming revenge no longer made her look forward to like the previous times.
She had considered these people her lifelong enemies, and even generously planned to spend the next five years seeking their lives. But now it seems that these people are not worthy of this honor at all. Their evil is as ugly as themselves. Even if they are wiped out in one breath, it will not bring her any pleasure or glory.
But she had to make everything end. This was a decision she had made long ago.
Hesta closed her eyes briefly, and the conversation with Campbell in the afternoon suddenly came to mind again.
"You know, Aya told me in the afternoon that before the trial, everyone must put their hands on the Bible or other religious books and swear never to lie in court, because the promises made on such occasions are very important... I think this is ridiculous, Mom.”
She lowered her eyes and looked at the cover of the poetry collection, "I will not abide by any oath. Even if I have to swear to something, I would rather press my hand on this poetry collection."
In the strong wind, all the previous warmth slowly dissipated, and the world became clear and concrete again.
She turned around again and looked at the dim light of the city coming from Tan Yi in the distance - it did not come from any directly visible light, but the light of the entire city dimly illuminated the part of the night sky that belonged to it.
Tonight will be a sleepless night for many people, but it doesn't matter. The greater the obstacles they set up, the stronger the power she can show, and the deeper the fear given to the living will be.
Hesta adjusted her breathing, "It's time for me to set off, Mom."
She stood up again, and the moment she lowered her head, Hesta found that the poetry collection in her hand happened to stop on another short poem:
"Even if you look through our letters,
No one can understand the deeper meaning:
How treacherous we are, that is to say—
How true we are to ourselves. "(2)
…
At Tan Yi North Station in the early morning, the square was quiet and deserted.
The curfew is still in place. After last night's riots, there will be more police on Tan Yi Street tonight. Several riot planners have been arrested and a large number of radical demonstrators have been detained. The city is much quieter tonight.
Surrounded by several mercury needles, Schmidt, wearing a mask, got off the car at the entrance of a passage. Rather than crossing directly across the square, they cautiously made their way directly to the platform through nearby building passages.
At Schmidt's request, a priest was already waiting for him in a waiting room. Since the bishop who was familiar with Schmidt and others was accompanying Richie at the Clyer farm tonight, the Cathedral of Our Lady of Candlesticks sent another highly respected old priest.
In principle, the confessional ceremony can only be performed in the church's confessional, but considering Schmidt's special fate at this moment, the church thoughtfully made an accommodation: they arranged a small office here as a temporary confessional.
In such a dark little room, no matter whether the confessor is a noble or a commoner, whether he is young or old, everyone can equally kneel down in front of the statue of the Father and confess their sins in a low voice.
At this moment, Schmidt couldn't wait to see a priest. He had too much anxiety to dump. He didn't even care who the other person was, as long as the person was harmless.
He thought of the psychological counselor that Fernand had relied on for many years - although he had scorned this and thought it was a game for the weak, but now it seems that it was just a kind of honesty to oneself... but he realized it too late. , maybe everyone has moments when they need to talk but can’t let anyone hear them.
These feelings tortured him like a fire, reaching their peak tonight, and the more he wanted to stop, the more intense the conflicting thoughts became. Until he passed a mirror.
Schmidt just glanced in the mirror casually, and his footsteps suddenly stopped. For just a moment, his eyes were completely attracted by the image in the mirror - the person in the mirror under the dim light and shadow made him feel extremely strange. His haggard silhouette at this moment was like any weak old man on the street, with all his former dignity gone.
As if overnight, he had truly aged.
This sudden self-examination was like a wake-up call, causing Schmidt to straighten his back and consciously widen his eyes.
"What's wrong with you?" Avinash also stopped and turned around to ask.
"It's nothing." Schmidt said solemnly, his voice regained its former majesty, but then he murmured very softly, "...No one can knock me down...Yes, No one... no one can!"
——
(1) Quoted from "Flowers" by Cherubina de Gabriac
(2) Quoted from Marina Tsvetaeva's "Gypsy-like Desire for Differentiation"
