Two Cities

Chapter 3 Night Shadow
We all have an innate curiosity about other people - which is incredible when you think about it.In the big cities at night, I always have to meditate solemnly. Those houses that are lined up without the sun, each one has an unspeakable story, and each one of each building also has an unspeakable secret.The tens of thousands of things imagined by every beating heart can't even confess to the closest one!From this we can comprehend some sensational news, even death itself.I can't afford to have the time to read a book I love.I can no longer study the mysteries of these unfathomable waters.I've caught glimpses of buried treasure and other things in the fleeting glimpses of light cast on the water.But I have only read one page of this book, but I am destined to never read it any more.The waters have been doomed to light passing only on its surface, and I can only stand on the shore and do nothing.My friends are dead, my neighbors are dead, the people I love, the darlings of my soul are dead.Some people have an irresistible desire to record this mystery and pass it on to future generations.Now I have decided to fulfill this wish in my lifetime.Among the cemeteries of the city I passed, was the inner world of the Sleeper the only thing that held me back?Or, more inextricable to them than I am?

In this matter, in this instinct, the messenger on horseback was as much a king, a prime minister, or the richest merchant in the City of London.Therefore, even if the passengers trapped in the same space, such as sharing a mail car, are each other's mystery, just like the dignitaries sitting in their own six-horse cart or sixty-horse cart, they are always close to each other. Measurement.

The messenger walked back leisurely, occasionally stopping at a roadside wheat shop for a drink.He's always trying to stay awake, with the brim of his hat up so that he doesn't obscure his view.His eyes fit well with the hat, the surface was black, and the color and shape were shallow.His eyes were too close together, and seemed to go their own way if they were too far apart.There is always a hint of sinister in his eyes, which is exposed under the raised triangular spittoon-like hat brim.A large scarf under the eyes covered the chin and throat and fell almost to the knees.When he stopped his horse to drink, he only opened the scarf with his left hand, and poured the wine into his mouth with his right hand, and then wrapped it up again with the scarf after drinking.

"No, Jerry, no!" said the messenger.He was meditating as he rode. "It's not good for you, Jerry. Jerry, you're an honest businessman, and it's bad for your business! Dead man—he's drunk, I bet!"

The information he brought back made him question suspiciously, and he wanted to take off his hat and scratch his scalp several times.The top of his head was bald, leaving only a few tangled hairs.The hair around the top of the head is black and hard, and grows abruptly in all directions, and grows down along the forehead, until it grows almost in front of the broad and flat nose.That hair is more like a blacksmith's masterpiece, more like the top of a wall covered with barbed wire, even a skilled frog jumper can only do nothing about this biggest obstacle and stay away from it.

The man trotted back on his horse.He was to take the news to the night watchman in the guard shed at the gate of Tellson's Bank, by the gates of the London Law School, and the night watchman was to relay the news to a higher authority in the bank.The news appeared in front of him like phantoms clamoring in the night, and it also seemed to block the mare's presence like phantoms that disturbed the mare's mind.The vision seemed to linger, for he recoiled in terror at every shadow in the path.

At the same time, the mail truck is carrying three unfathomable mysteries, rumbling, bumping and clanging on the desolate and boring road.The black shadows outside the window also took advantage of the sleepy eyes and wandering thoughts of the passengers to transform into various images and flashed before their eyes.

Tellson's Bank was at its busiest time on the mail coach.The bank clerk was dozing off with half-closed eyes.He slipped one arm through the belt loop so that he would not bump into a passenger next to him or fall into a corner if the carriage jolted too hard.The windows and lights of the carriage dimly caught his eyes, and the large packages of the passengers opposite him were his business, and he was very busy.The sound of the saddles tying his earnings, signed checks in five minutes three times as long as Tellson Bank did in international and domestic business.Then the vault in the basement of Tellson's Bank was enlarged before his eyes, containing the precious hoards and secrets with which he was familiar (he knew a great deal about such things).Holding a huge key chain in his hand, he walked through the storage by the faint candlelight, and found that everything there was safe, solid, stable, and peaceful, just like the last time he saw it.

But even though he was in the bank, he was also in the mail.The feeling was blurred, as if opiates were used to suppress the pain.There was also a train of images that flashed before his eyes all night—he was going to dig a dead man from his grave.

But the shadow at night did not clearly indicate which one was the buried one.But these are all the faces of 45-year-old men, and the only difference between them is the expression and haggard image presented.Expressions of self-esteem, contempt, challenge, tenacity, submission, and mourning flashed before his eyes one by one, sunken cheeks, pale face, bony hands and figure.But there are only one more face, and everyone's hair is prematurely gray.Countless times the sleepy traveler asked the ghost:

"How long has it been buried?" Answers vary. "Almost 18 years." "Have you given up hope of digging it out?" "It's been a long time ago."

"Do you know you're resurrected?" "I've heard so." "Do you want yourself to live?" "Not sure yet."

"Do you want me to bring her to see you? Would you like to come and visit her?" The answers to this question were contradictory.Sometimes the fragmented answer is, "Don't worry! If I saw her sooner, I will die." Sometimes it is tearful and affectionate, "Take me to see her." Sometimes it is glaring, full of anger. She said with a confused face, "I don't know her well, I don't understand what you said."

After thus imagining their conversation, the passenger imagined digging, digging, digging—sometimes with a shovel, sometimes with a large key, sometimes with his hands—to get the poor man dig it out.Finally dug it out, and the head was covered with dirt.He may suddenly disappear and turn to dust.At this moment, the passenger suddenly woke up, lowered the curtains, returned to reality, and stretched out his head to meet the fog and rain.

But even if his eyes were opened in front of the fog, rain, lights, and hedges passing by along the way, the black shadow outside the car at night merged with a series of black shadows.The real bank building next to the gate of the London Law School, the real business yesterday, the real safehouse, the real courier who came after him, and the real answer he made were all in that shadow inside.The ghostly face still leaps out of the mist.He'll talk to him again.

"How long has it been buried?" "Almost 18 years." "I hope you'd like to live." "I'm not sure."

Digging--digging--digging, until a passenger made him draw the curtains with great annoyance, slipped his hands firmly into his belts, and watched the two sleepy figures carefully, and slowly, he His thoughts left the two men and turned to the bank and the grave.

"How long has it been buried?" "Almost 18 years."

"Have you given up hope of digging him out?" "You've given up a long time ago."

The words rang and rumbled like any he had ever heard in his life—and then the weary passenger found that day had dawned and the shadows of night had vanished.

He lowered the window and looked at the rising sun outside the window.Outside the window is a field that has just been plowed, and on it is a plow that was left after the horse's yoke was removed last night.The bushes in the distance are silent, with many red or yellow leaves left.Although the ground is cold and wet, the sky is clear.The sun rose, brilliant, serene, and undeniably beautiful.

"18 years!" said the passenger looking at the sun. "O good man who made the day! Buried alive for 18 years!"

(End of this chapter)