Chapter 371: The Fragments
War is cruel. People shed blood on the front lines and the rear cannot escape the bombardment of shells, but life still has to go on. The fear-ridden environment makes people cherish the rare peaceful environment even more.
After several days of peace and tranquility, Bronte Dorothy, who had stayed in the woods for a long time, packed up and came to the Muggle world to try something new.
At that time, Maggie probably had no interest in such things, so she stayed in the wild. Only Bronte walked slowly to the square with the scent of grass from the jungle on his body.
Summer is approaching, the sun is shining brightly, and the marble fountain in the center of the square is gurgling. It is still white, and holy under the sun. The women who stay behind bring their children to the fountain and reverently cast the price of their wishes under the witness of the ruins of the bombed houses not far away.
There were many silvery things in that pool of clear water, not to mention coins, but also many jewelry and small badges. Each of them carried the pain and despair of the person praying who could no longer bear it.
As the species that needs cleanliness the most in times of war, the white dove flaps its wings and flies low, passing by every person who hopes that the image behind it will come, exchanging its comforting touch for a little food.
The war could not reach Bronte, and no worries could entangle Bronte. He strolled in the square, and all he cared about was to take out his forged student ID at any time to prove to those who had lost everything to the war that he was actually prepared to contribute to the country.
Would Bronte feel uneasy about this contrast? Probably not, he was once a standard aristocrat, but some eras have ended, and his real age, which is inconsistent with his appearance, has long exceeded the conscription age.
It was a sign of his kindness that he didn't want the military to be branded as abusing the elderly.
While strolling in the garden, he saw a person feeding pigeons with bread crumbs in his open hands on a bench not far away. It was a face that did not belong to this place.
Bronte became interested in this face, perhaps because it was one of the few faces in the square as young as his, or perhaps it was the collections he had placed in the woods that had traveled across the oceans and aroused his curiosity about the culture behind this face. In short, he walked over and sat next to the oriental youth Wu Yunzhou with his smell of grass all over his body.
"Hello," Bronte greeted him, his golden hair and blue-green eyes sparkling in the sun. Fortunately, his original family had laid a solid foundation for his good upbringing, which made his familiarity and casual movements not so frivolous. "Z countryman?"
Feeling Bronte's friendliness, Wu Yunzhou, who had witnessed several of his compatriots being beaten for no reason, let down his guard a little. He nodded, and his hand holding the bread crumbs suddenly stiffened, and he still couldn't let go.
"I like your silk and china, and I used to grow flowers that were shipped from you," Bronte took out a bag of bread crumbs from her pocket, poured them into her hands and started feeding the pigeons. "Where are you from? Is it the place with many palaces and gardens?"
"We have many palaces and gardens in many places," Wu Yunzhou said, with pride and sadness, "and there were even more in the past."
"I also apologize for the collections in the museum," Brontë said with regret, "Those things, whether exquisite or magnificent, must have been more exquisite and magnificent in their former places, and they are definitely more suitable for display than in foreign museums."
Wu Yunzhou felt that Bronte's words were strange. Although she was apologetic and regretful, she did not mention at all the humiliation that this country had once inflicted on another country. She only looked at the matter from the perspective of how to decorate a room more beautifully.
He felt unfair and sad because there were not many people like Bronte who were willing to feel sorry for them. Moreover, the destruction of beauty was also a reasonable perspective. A naive young man like him at least had more empathy than those who boasted and talked nonsense, and was not hopeless.
This thought made Wu Yunzhou even sadder. He reminded himself that he was here to study, not to quarrel or cause trouble, so he pursed his lips and changed the subject, "I think I know the place with many palaces and gardens you mentioned. I'm from there and have been studying there."
"Really? That's great. It must be great to live in a place full of ancient monuments, right?" Bronte laughed, her voice floating and leisurely, as if she was swaying across a rough sea. "I think even the roads are special. Every step you take, you can hear the echo of the past. Just thinking about it makes people yearn for it."
The war expanded from one piece of land to several pieces of land, and people's vision also spread from ravines and ridges to the longitude and latitude across the continent. Different people had to meet each other, and it would be great if what happened between them was such communication of mutual longing rather than war.
Wu Yunzhou looked at Bronte's increasingly bright eyes, sighed, and smiled at this young man full of literary and artistic spirit. "The road is just a foil that makes you more unforgettable. It will never overshadow any more vivid historical imprint."
"Anyone who is willing to learn more about my motherland will not regret it. You should go and see it if you have the chance," Wu Yunzhou said softly. Through the white dove with its wings shining on his palm, his sight expanded to the fountain of hope and the ruins that needed to be rebuilt. "Of course, after everything in your country and everything in my country is over, I will be happy to entertain you then."
"I will go if I have a chance. Let me treat you today," Bronte laughed. He threw away the bread crumbs in his hand and stretched out his hand to Wu Yunzhou. "Bronte, Bronte Dorothy."
The two hands covered with bread crumbs were clasped together, and Wu Yunzhou said his name word by word, "Yunzhou, Wu Yunzhou."
Before these two people who met by chance acted out their hospitality, Wu Yunzhou took a photo of Bronte after obtaining his consent to commemorate the inspiration given to him by this foreign friend. They also took a photo together, agreeing that this would serve as proof that Wu Yunzhou would entertain Bronte in the future.
The past was frozen in two photos. Della woke up slowly from a drowsy nap. She stared at the wooden beams above her head, recalling the past that her subconscious had processed based on Wu Yunzhou's description.
She did not use Legilimency on Wu Yunzhou. She felt that it was just right to get to know her parents through the description of a kind elder. It was distant yet real, and the past connected by specific people was more real than cold memories.
In the past, she had a very ordinary impression of Brontë, her biological father, and felt that he was a stranger with little connection. The only way for her to connect to this seemingly insignificant person was through Maggie, and what Maggie showed her was Brontë's cowardice, debauchery and contempt, so that she ignored the efforts he made for Della and his family recorded in those books.
In fact, she was deliberately ignoring it. She thought that she was no longer the original Della and was not worthy of the finally settled love.
However, as an alchemist, she had actually discovered long ago that the portrait that Brontë drew to summon Della back was not for the purpose of bringing the dead back to life. Della was no longer there, and only longing and expectation kept this name, and she inherited it rather than robbed it.
To this day, in addition to the cowardly, dissolute and contemptuous, she has added a few more pieces, the witty, elegant and friendly, the image of her mother Doreen Schiller, who formed her middle name, is still vague, but Della can already outline a happy family, a happy family that will accept Della.
She thought of the Mirror of Erised that she and Harry had seen in first grade. She still didn't understand the desire she saw, but she understood why Harry saw his parents, both out of longing and for all the beautiful possibilities that could have been.
It was hard because she always felt that Harry was not growing fast enough, but now she was walking the same path that Harry had walked a few years ago.
Della lay on the bed, her chest heaving, and she let out a long breath that sounded like both a sigh and relief.
She is more than just 'the only one'.