Felix Patrick——As the most inconspicuous sidekick and local translator under an oligarch somewhere in Dublin, if you don't see blood in your daily life, you can only see dust. He secretly wondered why the "Old Vulture" suddenly wanted him to try his luck in Smithfield Street, a place full of abandoned shops. Maybe God was taking a nap, so he saw a light on in a shop and moved in several bookshelves filled with old books. He met a man, a rather strange man. When his saber was placed on his neck, the man was unhurriedly repairing a book with cracked seams. Although autumn has just entered, he pulls the scarf over his face, revealing a pair of incredibly soft honey-colored eyes. "Long time no see." Felix felt that this man was staring at the scar on his face. Have we met? He couldn't remember. In 1968, he was eight years old. The Gaelic ballads my father sang were buried under the flames of war in Belfast, along with the pea soup my mother made. All memories are somewhat distorted at this moment. He couldn't sleep at night, for the first time. He saw a little boy standing timidly outside the door of the solitary room, handing a wrinkled piece of paper to himself who had just been beaten. A poem. The poem says that his scars are like the flapping wings of a butterfly.
Intention: The name of the messenger angel was finally attached to a mortal. You are not an angel, but he is willing to be a sinner and go to the paradise where you are.