The north wind continued to howl outside the window, and the snow on the streets grew deeper and deeper. The night sky, veiled by dense, dark clouds, looked as black as ink. Night had fallen over the entire small town, but warm light spilled out from the windows, accompanied by the intermittent aroma of roasted meat.
Suddenly, Lancelot thought of the little match girl from Hans Christian Andersen's story. She had struck the matches of her life alone in the freezing, snowy night, and passed away in silence and solitude. That day had been Christmas Eve, yet it had brought her no peace.
It is always only after growing up that one learns how ruthless this world truly is. Reality has a way of washing over you like the tide, slamming you down onto the beach again and again. Perhaps some people can pick themselves up and charge forward once more after being knocked down, while others never manage to stand again. Some precious things are like seashells on the beach; if you stumble carelessly in the waves, when you get back up, that seashell is gone forever. Long ago swept into the deepest abyss by the surging tide, it tumbles and shatters among the breakers, slowly sinking to the ocean floor, never to see the light of day again.
Chapter 26