The night was spent in comfort and comfort, without the cold of the ice fields of the past, and the loneliness of the wilderness of the past.

The alcohol and flames warmed people's bodies, and gradually made people drunk and slightly drunk, until everyone was a little sleepy, and Yanagihara and McKa, who were still awake, helped them all into the carriage.

At dawn, Yanagihara woke up on the couch, brushed away the messy hair in front of him, and looked at the sky outside. Last night was the first half of the night she watched, and the second half of the night that Maika watched.

Al was still lying in her arms, one hand on her chest, the other on her waist, his face buried between her clothes, drooling from the corners of his mouth.

This girl who seems to be quiet is not so quiet when she sleeps.

Always writhing around, like a maggot gnawing on carrion.

Well, Yanagihara isn't good at metaphors.

Carefully picking up the girl and putting her aside, Yanagihara did not wake her up, and then walked into the bathroom in the carriage alone to wash up.

It's still snowing outside the window, or rather, that's the norm on the ice sheet.

Snowflakes fell on the edge of the window, creating a layer of snow that was not so thick that it seemed as if it could be knocked off with just a random tap.

There is a layer of white mist hanging over the window, which makes the scenery outside the window look a little hazy.

Yanagihara stared at the window, took the notebook from his pocket, and continued to write her letter.

She hadn't written anything new for a long time, and whatever she said today, she had to write a few words into it.

"Ahem, ahem."

At this time, Yanagihara heard a coughing sound from the carriage.

She turned her head to see De Rosso lying on his little bed, clutching his chest in pain.

At this moment, the young man's brows were furrowed, his lips were slightly open and closed, as if he was whispering silently, and his eyes were closed together, as if he had seen some terrible scene in the darkness.

Yanagihara knew that he was suffering from heart swelling again.

Silently walking to his bedside, Yanagihara picked up the medicine jar that the boy had placed at the head of the bed, took out a pill, brought it to the boy's mouth, and reached out to wake the boy up.

"Take your medicine, if you can still open your mouth."

De Rosso opened his eyes and saw Yanagihara sitting on the edge of the bed, a look of gratitude appeared on his face, and then he opened his mouth to swallow the medicine Yanagihara handed him.

The effect of the drug was good, and after another gasp in bed, De Rosso's face regained some blood. It's still pale, but at least it doesn't look like a blank sheet of paper anymore.

"Thank you." Leaning back on the mattress, De Rosso smiled bitterly and said weakly.

"Nothing." Yanagihara responded lightly.

De Rosso's health is getting worse and worse, and she should know that best.

Because she takes De Rosso to the ice wall every day to paint, she can clearly feel that De Rosso's spirit is getting weaker and weaker.

The funny thing is that Yanagihara is extremely sensitive to the passage of life, even if she herself is not even a life.

The cold wind mixed with snowflakes blew the windows of the car and made a sound similar to a whimper.

Yanagihara casually placed De Roso's medicine jar at the head of his bed and asked lightly.

"Is it worth it?"

Is it worth it, and what she wants to ask is, is it really worth the pain?

De Rosso didn't answer Yanagihara's question directly, he just smiled, turned his head sideways to look out the window, and after a moment, spoke slowly.

"Ms. Hara, do you know? Some people are born beautiful because they have a beautiful appearance. Some people will be beautiful in the end because they have a moving heart. Some people can't be beautiful for the rest of their lives, because they can only huddle in the corner, playing an ugly role and contrasting beauty. I used to be such an ugly person, and now, I want to be beautiful again. ”

As he spoke, De Rosso slowly raised his hand and pointed to his chest.

"With my heart that isn't necessarily beautiful."

"I want to shine some light and die in the light······"

Before being adopted by the old painter, De Rosso grew up in a garbage heap, where he was dirty, ugly, and distorted. At that time, he could only make a living by picking up food from the garbage heap, and everything in his memory was damp, cold, and difficult to swallow.

He had lived in the darkest places, so he couldn't forget what the light looked like.

He was uglier than anyone else, so he yearned for beauty more than anyone else.

How funny, isn't it, the most appreciative people, often don't have it.

They look at everything with the simplest and purest eyes, and express their envy and amazement in the most straightforward way.

They are the most coarse, but they are the ones who can give birth to the most unreserved expectations.

De Rosso wants to be beautiful because he considers himself mean, because he doesn't want to die ugly.

Yanagihara didn't say anything to De Rosso's words, she just nodded, and then left De Rosso's bedside.

The morning was still quiet.

By the snowy window, Yanagihara took her notebook and sat down in her seat to write.

"To my frozen homeland, are you still as beautiful as you were when I left?"

Are you still as beautiful as you were when you first started?

······

De Rosso's paintings are getting more and more perfect, in the passage of time.

A few months later, he was almost finished with his work.

It was a distant mountain, standing under a clear blue sky, with emerald green grasslands between the peaks, forests of beautiful trees, babbling streams and waterfalls, and lavender swaying in the wind.

There are birds, fish and insects, snow on the top of the mountain, and tents at the bottom of the mountain.

The painting is so huge that standing in front of this ice wall is as if you are actually seeing the distant mountain.

So much so that standing in front of this painting, it is as if one has really stepped into this landscape.

Almost every time, when people come to admire this painting under the ice wall, they can't help but be amazed.

Because every detail of it is so realistic, it seems to be as perfect as possible. Because each petal of the flower seems to be alive, as if it has been injected into the soul of the creator.

It's going to be a great piece of work, Maika once said, and it deserves to be witnessed by all.

Jester stopped complaining, and though he was too embarrassed to admit it, he did be blown away by the painting.

Even he couldn't believe it, but when he looked at this painting, he actually had a yearning. I wish he could live at the foot of that mountain, in that tent. Wait for the sun to rise and wait for night to fall.

Was the world like this in the past, as if every bit of time was worth cherishing?

It seems that no matter what you miss, it will be a pity.

In a few days, the painting will be finished, and everyone thinks so.

However, on the same night, De Rosso suddenly woke Yanagihara.

In the darkness, the boy's figure looked so thin and weak.

"Ms. Hara." He said with a smile.

"Can you take me to the ice wall now, I think, to finish my work."

The night was silent.

Yanagihara knew that De Rosso was going to die this night.