Winter is approaching, the yellowing autumn leaves fall helplessly, the dry branches twist and stretch like a forest of thorns, the warm sunlight scatters, sliced into shattered patterns by the sharp branches, falling onto the pristine white blanket.
Bola lies on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling above, the lavish paintings filling his entire field of vision, looking at it for too long was somehow straining to the eyes.
"Ah... such a rare break."
A familiar sigh came from the adjacent bed. Bola slightly turned his head, Red Falcon turned over, found a comfortable position to continue resting, and mumbled casually as if talking in his sleep.
The sound of the blanket came from the other side again. Bola turned his head again, only to see Bluebird holding a theology book, reading it quietly.
His chest was wrapped in bandages, and from his relaxed expression, it could be seen that he was recovering quite well.
"Yes, it's really rare."
