During the Easter holiday, I went to Oxford and found the old home where Tolkien wrote "The Lord of the Rings". A simple and even excessively small building is embedded with indigo-colored signs issued by the British government to the former residences of celebrities. I didn't want to disturb the current residents inside. After standing silently across the street, it suddenly rained. When I stepped out of the theater early this morning, it was also raining. I ran across unpopulated roads and caught up with the night bus that runs every hour. When he swiped the card, he thanked him. The driver blushed and smiled at me seriously. On the way to the fifth grade autumn outing twelve years ago, I sat in the seat on the front wheel of an old-fashioned bus with no place to rest my feet. The smile said, "Look at such an old book."
This scene is still in sight, but it has been separated by twelve years and a space of 9,000 kilometers. The bus opened the heavy rain curtain, and the stagnant mist formed on the window, which was blown away by the cold wind poured in by the open transom. I thought I would lose control of my emotions after the film ended, but I never thought I felt very at ease. It turns out that the Middle-earth world built by those melody, those ballads, those kindness, and those beliefs will never end. It spans time and space, races, and language, and it will last forever and return.
So, in the center of the theater, there really was a Chinese girl sitting.
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