l_english:  
  ENG_Covid_Events.111.t: "A London Morning"
  ENG_Covid_Events.111.desc: "At six thirty in the morning, the sky outside was still gray.\n\nThomas sat on a wooden chair in the kitchen, staring at the cup of tea that had already gone cold. The news channel kept replaying the Prime Minister’s speech—\n\n“We must learn to live with the virus. Britain cannot be ruled by fear.” He hadn’t gone to work.\n\nLast night, the hospital had called: his mother’s oxygen levels were dropping and she needed to be moved to intensive care. The nurse’s voice was calm, as if reading a weather report. Thomas nodded, thanked her, and hung up—only then realizing that he wasn’t even allowed to visit. Outside, there were still people on the street. A paperboy was handing out copies of The Daily Mail, and the smell of bread drifted from the café doorway. Everyone seemed to be pretending that everything was normal, as if life would chase the disaster away by continuing as usual. He turned on the radio. The host was discussing the scientific basis of so-called “herd immunity,” explaining how people who recover from infection would produce antibodies—forming a kind of natural wall. The expert’s voice was steady, rational, even a little confident. Thomas listened and felt only cold. In the afternoon, he received a video call from his sister. She was in Birmingham; two of her three children were already coughing nonstop. She laughed and said, “Maybe this is what the government means by mild symptoms,” but there was exhaustion behind her smile. Thomas had little to offer by way of comfort—just told her to drink more water, open the windows. When night fell, the Prime Minister spoke again. On TV he looked composed, saying the number of deaths was “within expectations,” saying that the British people were resilient and brave. Thomas watched that face on the screen and suddenly didn’t know whether to be angry or resigned. His mother was still in the hospital, his sister might end up there too, and the streets outside still flowed with traffic as usual.\n\nHe stepped out onto the balcony. London’s night looked just the same—neon lights flickering, the sound of the Underground rumbling faintly in the distance.。\n"
  ENG_Covid_Events.111.a: "Perhaps it's just a cold.？"
  ENG_Covid_Events.112.t: "Beyond the model"
  ENG_Covid_Events.112.desc: "At three in the morning, the lights still burned in the conference room. Chief Scientific Adviser Richard Everson stared at the curves on the screen: the blue line representing infections, the red line representing deaths. No matter how he adjusted the parameters, the red line would inevitably rise sooner or later. \n\n‘We cannot eradicate it entirely,’ he murmured. \n\nThe room fell silent. The Treasury representative set down his pen. Health Secretary Matt Hancock frowned. Boris Johnson leaned back in his chair, silent for a long moment. Richard advanced to the next slide—a simulation generated by AI algorithms, illustrating how infection peaks would shift under different policies. ‘Lockdowns can flatten the curve, but as soon as restrictions lift, it will climb again.’ He paused, his voice growing hushed. ‘The only way to truly halt it is for enough people to become infected and gain immunity. All we can do is slow that process. No one contradicted him. The clock on the wall ticked steadily; through the thick windows, the sparse patter of rain outside Downing Street could be heard. Johnson finally spoke: ‘So what we need is to control the pace of infection.’\n\nRichard nodded. ‘Yes, delay transmission. Not stop it, but guide it.’ the meeting adjourned, the documents bore a new heading: ‘Delay Spread Theory.’ Gathering his notes, he felt a sudden dizziness. The theory appeared clinical on paper, but he knew what it meant: some would survive because of it, others would not.  the time he reached home, dawn was breaking. His wife brewed tea in the kitchen and asked how things had gone. He merely shook his head. ‘We've decided not to fight the virus, but to learn to live with it.’ She offered no reply, simply handing him the cup. The radio broadcast the morning news; the presenter's tone was light, as if everything remained under control. Richard watched the London streetscape gradually lighten outside his window. He recalled the phrase from the meeting that had been written into the policy document—‘controlled transmission’. Scientifically, it held water, but in his heart, those words felt too cold.。\n"
  ENG_Covid_Events.112.a: "Just then, his wife coughed twice."
  ENG_Covid_Events.113.t: "The Prime Minister's Evening"
  ENG_Covid_Events.113.desc: "The night over London was darker than usual. The curtains at Number 10 Downing Street hung tightly drawn, with only a single chandelier illuminating the conference room. Files piled upon the table contained petitions, data, and opinions all concerning ‘lockdown’. Boris Johnson sat at the edge of the table, his fingers tapping lightly on the papers. The Department of Health, scientific advisers, the media—all were calling for lockdown. Polls showed over seventy per cent of the public wanted the government to ‘take tougher measures’. After hearing all the briefings, he uttered only one sentence: ‘What about the economy?’\nRishi Sunak handed over another report, the rustle of pages distinctly audible in the still night – if the nation ground to a halt, business failure rates would triple within three months, and unemployment could surpass post-war records. After a moment of silence, no one spoke again. ‘We cannot allow the nation to shut itself down,’ he said calmly, though his words seemed more an explanation to himself. The Prime Minister's Secretary jotted down notes beside him: ‘So... reject lockdown?’ Johnson looked up: ‘We advise people to stay home, but it won't be enforced. Pubs, the Underground, shopping centres will remain open. People have common sense; they'll decide for themselves.’ nAs the meeting concluded, the clock struck midnight. Stepping out of Downing Street, the air carried a chill of spring mingled with petrol fumes, punctuated by the distant wail of an ambulance. Johnson paused, gazing across the street at the café still lit—someone inside closing up, wiping tables, as if nothing had happened. At one o'clock in the morning, he drafted the next day's statement in his study. ‘Britain will not be ruled by fear. We trust science, and we trust our citizens.’ His pen paused for a few seconds before he crossed out the final sentence: ‘We have no choice.’ Television screens still rolled footage of foreign lockdowns, Paris, Rome, Berlin all plunged into silence. He picked up his teacup, but it had grown cold. Streetlights glowed outside, the road filled with the sounds of bustling life...\n"
  ENG_Covid_Events.113.a: "yet interspersed with the sound of coughing "
  ENG_Covid_Events.114.t: "At the end of the corridor"
  ENG_Covid_Events.114.desc: "At four in the morning, the ward lights never dim. Nurse Emily leaned against the wall, removing her goggles to reveal two deep marks etched into her cheeks. She had been on her thirteenth consecutive hour of night duty, her breath steaming slightly beneath her mask. \nShe had just changed the oxygen tube for the elderly gentleman in bed number seven. The old man had been in a stupor for two days, his medical records noting his condition had ‘deteriorated from mild to severe’. Emily knew what this signified—he would soon be transferred to the corridor, as the critical care ward had no space left. The corridor was already lined with hospital beds. The rhythmic hum of ventilators rose and fell like an eternal chorus. Volunteer doctors, hastily recruited from other regions, rushed in wearing ill-fitting protective suits. Some called out for medication, others moved body bags. Over a dozen ‘death confirmation forms’ piled on the nurses' station desk, each requiring a signature. A television hung at the corridor's end, its newsreader's tone steady: ‘The government states the healthcare system remains operational; the public need not panic.’\nEmily watched for a few seconds before looking away. She harboured no hatred, nor did she wish to dwell on the decision-making meetings. Yet sometimes, she truly wished someone would come here to see for themselves. At five in the morning, medical staff sipped lukewarm tea in the break room. One mentioned the converted sports hall from yesterday, now crammed with ventilators and oxygen cylinders; another murmured about the ‘government thank-you letter’ received at home, which read—‘You are the nation's heroes.’ No one laughed, no one responded. \nBy the time Emily returned to the ward, dawn was breaking. London remained still outside the windows as the Underground began its run. She picked up the new protective visor, took a deep breath, and walked towards the end of the corridor. The lights there still burned, as if they would never go out。\n"
  ENG_Covid_Events.114.a: "Quick! Bed number seven has lost vital signs!"
  ENG_Covid_Events.115.t: "Day of the Declaration:"
  ENG_Covid_Events.115.desc: "mother still hadn't dared open the urn. And today, she had London time, seven o'clock sharp. The studio lights were blindingly bright. Anna sat behind the camera, watching the Prime Minister appear on screen—dressed in a dark suit, his tone steady. ‘We must learn to live with the virus. Britain will not be ruled by fear again.’ A track of applause played from the wings. Anna knew it was pre-recorded. On screen, his expression was composed; off screen, her hands trembled. \nHer brother had died last year in a makeshift hospital in Birmingham, cremated just three days prior. Her o sit here, editing this ‘historic address’ into a five-minute news segment, providing a neutral voiceover. The editorial suite was hushed. A colleague coughed; no one wore masks anymore. A ‘Back to Normal’ poster plastered on the wall proclaimed in bold letters: We did it. She stared at the words, feeling a wave of nausea. After the broadcast ended, she walked out of the BBC building. The streets were teeming with people; pubs had reopened, their lights and laughter glaring. Some were singing, others celebrating the ‘end of the pandemic.’ Passing a telephone box, Anna heard someone inside choking back sobs: \n‘My dad... he never even got into ICU. They said the beds were full.’ The voice was cut off by the wind, then drowned out by laughter. She kept walking. By the river, she saw a stone wall covered in photographs and white flowers – doctors, teachers, bus drivers, cleaners who had died, and anonymous family snaps. Some were lighting candles, others were crying. Her phone buzzed. A message from the editor: ‘Tomorrow's headline – “Reconciliation with Nature”.’ ‘ Anna stared at the words and suddenly laughed. It was a dry, almost silent laugh. She pulled out her phone and snapped a photo of the river's surface. \nThe night wind was cold. She murmured a sentence: \n’。”"
  ENG_Covid_Events.116.t: "Interview"
  ENG_Covid_Events.116.desc: "The lights in the Sky News studio were a harsh, cold white. The red recording lights on the cameras flashed incessantly, and an air of uneasy tension hung heavy in the room. Health Secretary Matt Hancock sat at the centre, his fingers tapping lightly on the tabletop. Before him lay a stack of briefing papers he had personally annotated, their corners already crumpled. The presenter's expression was composed, yet carried a hint of sharpness. The presenter leaned forward slightly, her voice amplified through the microphone: ‘Secretary of State, the Prime Minister's herd immunity policy has sparked widespread debate in recent days. Scotland's First Minister, Nicola Sturgeon, has publicly voiced her opposition, calling it a “gamble with lives”. Do you believe the Prime Minister's strategy is correct?’ Hancock lifted his head, the camera's red dot fixed upon him. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate, his eyes flickering with a glimmer of struggle. The air hung heavy for three seconds. Sweat trickled down his temple before his voice finally broke through—slightly dry, yet utterly clear: ‘Scotland's position is entirely correct. Viruses do not halt their spread at political borders. Allowing thousands to contract COVID-19 is absolutely not a scientific choice—it is a disregard for human life.’ The studio fell deathly silent. Only the faint mechanical hum of cameras and hushed murmurs beyond the soundproof glass could be heard. The presenter paused for several seconds, fingering his notes to confirm he hadn't misheard. Leaning forward slightly, he lowered his voice: ‘Are you suggesting the Prime Minister's strategy is misguided?’ Hancock's hands gripped the desk edge so tightly his knuckles turned white. He drew a deep breath before withdrawing his hands, his voice steady yet laced with pent-up fury: ‘Yes. I can no longer stand idly by. We must take action. We must slow the virus's spread. Every day we delay means more deaths.’ Seconds later, the live feed cut. The screen blacked out momentarily before switching to an advertisement. In the Prime Minister's office at 10 Downing Street, the television had frozen on Hancock's face. \nJohnson's gaze turned utterly cold in that instant. He slammed the television off, leapt to his feet, and kicked the documents off the desk. Papers scattered across the floor, bearing titles like ‘Public Health Strategy,’ ‘Herd Immunity Models,’ and ‘Economic Forecasts.’ The air thickened with the scent of tea and ink. No one dared enter.。\n"
  ENG_Covid_Events.116.a: "“Even he betrayed me.。”"
  ENG_Covid_Events.117.t: "In the crowd"
  ENG_Covid_Events.117.desc: "Night descended upon central London as police cordons stretched round and round the square. The wind carried the scent of flowers mingled with the smell of burnt-out candles. Officer James stood at the very front of the line, his helmet visor fogged over. The crowd grew denser, banners raised higher. ‘Your freedom, kill them.’ ‘No more coexistence – we're burying people.’\nSome chanted slogans, others silently held photographs – images of deceased nurses, bus drivers, grandmothers, neighbours. James recognised one face. His brother. Infected and dead three months prior. On the day of the cremation, he hadn't even been able to collect the ashes. Now, he stood maintaining order under government orders. A woman in the front row broke down, hurling a bouquet of flowers. They struck the shield and slid to the ground. Behind the officers, someone murmured, ‘I wish I could just take this uniform off.’ nNo one answered. They knew this wasn't a riot, but an unspeakable funeral. \nLoudspeakers repeated the official announcement: ‘Please maintain distance. Do not gather.’\nYet no one dispersed. Candle flames stretched from street corners to the riverbank, one by one. Children wrote names in the dirt; the wind smudged the chalk letters. James stared at the words—“Mum.” He didn’t know whether to step forward or retreat. His hands trembled. \nA voice cried out from the crowd: “Tell us the truth! How many died?” Hoarse, yet sharp as a blade. \nSirens sliced through the air. The commander ordered the advance; the riot line moved forward slowly. James raised his shield, yet froze the next instant. The woman scattering flowers knelt, clutching a photograph, sobbing uncontrollably. James lowered his shield. Beneath his visor, tears blurred into mist. Suddenly he understood: this was not a protest against the government, but an indictment of fate. In that moment, he knew not whom he represented—the state, or the streets。"
  ENG_Covid_Events.117.a: "The wind blew out several candles.。"
  ENG_Covid_Events.118.t: "Final Briefing"
  ENG_Covid_Events.118.desc: "The air in the Downing Street briefing room was dry and heavy. The lights were too bright, as if for an interrogation. Arthur, the government press secretary, stood behind the lectern, gazing at the densely packed rows of journalists before him—not a single smiling face. \nMonths earlier, he had stood here declaring that the ‘herd immunity strategy had achieved phased results’; before that, announcing that ‘the system was still functioning’; and today, he was to proclaim that ‘the nation was steadily rebuilding trust’. He nearly laughed at himself. \nThe red lights on the cameras flashed on. ‘Good afternoon, everyone,’ he said, his voice steady yet sounding hollow even to his own ears. \nA reporter in the front row raised his hand before Arthur had finished. ‘Mr Secretary, polls show the Prime Minister's approval rating has fallen to 12%. Do you believe the government still possesses credibility?’\nArthur bowed his head slightly, pressed a button on the lectern, and read from his notes: ‘We respect the expression of public opinion. The government is rebuilding trust through open communication—’\nBefore he could finish, another reporter interrupted: "Public communication? Are you referring to deleting posts or backtracking?‘ A ripple of low laughter spread through the hall. Arthur looked up, meeting the lenses of the cameras. It suddenly struck him that these very lenses had once captured the Prime Minister speaking of “freedom” in the garden, and had also recorded the image of a nurse weeping in a hospital ward. Now, they held only indifference. Another journalist asked: ’Is the government willing to admit its mistakes?" Arthur fell silent for several seconds. He knew the answer was ‘no,’ but no sound came from his throat. \nHe stared at a single phrase on his notes—‘Stay confident.’ It was the Prime Minister's own handwritten annotation. \nHe took a deep breath and finally managed, ‘The British have never lacked confidence.’ A barrage of camera flashes erupted. The atmosphere in the room grew as cold as steel. \nThe briefing ended, and he exited through the back door. Outside Downing Street, protesters still held placards, rainwater blurring the slogans: ‘We no longer believe you.’ Arthur stood beneath the eaves, watching the crowd gradually disperse. A BBC notification flashed on his phone screen: [Commentary: Britain's confidence is suffocating.] He turned off the screen, leaned against the wall, and exhaled slowly. Turning back towards Number 10 Downing Street。\n"
  ENG_Covid_Events.118.a: "“Bloody hell, confidence”"
  ENG_Covid_Events.119.t: "liquidation"
  ENG_Covid_Events.119.desc: "Rain fell on London from dawn till dusk. Outside the iron railings of Downing Street, crowds gathered—no longer to protest, but to accuse. Shouts, cries and sirens mingled into a cacophony of apocalyptic noise. ‘Murderers!’ ‘Resign and die!’ Resign and die!‘\nSome had scrawled on photographs: ’Three million. Remember?‘ Others held placards spray-painted in scarlet: ’We do not forgive." Police formed a cordon at the front of the crowd, riot shields adorned with flowers and slogans—“Your freedom buried my family.” Some hurled flowers, others stones. Most simply wept. The curtains at Number 10 Downing Street remained drawn. Inside, Johnson sat in his study as the wall clock ticked steadily. Reports covered the entire desk: death tolls, parliamentary inquiries, draft resignation letters. His hands trembled. Each breath felt like drawing in scorched air. \nHis secretary entered, pale-faced: ‘Prime Minister... they're chanting your name outside.’ Johnson didn't look up, merely asked: ‘Still filming?’ ‘Yes, live nationwide.’ He gave a wry smile, murmuring: ‘They want to see me fall.’\ Moments later, he approached the familiar black door. The clamour beyond surged like a tidal wave. Flashbulbs, shouts, rain—all crashed against his face. He had no prepared speech. He merely stared at the chaotic crowd. Shoes were hurled at him, tins, lists bearing the names of the dead. One list struck his chest, fell to the ground, and was scattered by the rain into shreds. \nHe finally spoke. ‘Britain has endured immense suffering. I take full responsibility. I have tendered my resignation to Her Majesty the Queen. These past years have brought unprecedented challenges—pandemic, division, loss. I am not a perfect leader, but I have always strived to do what I believed was right...’ \nBefore he could finish, a roar cut him off. ‘Fuck you!’ a woman screamed, her voice wrenching. ‘You killed my child!’ A man echoed, ‘You didn't even come to the funeral!’ The crowd grew increasingly unruly, the cordon breached. Bodyguards stepped forward, shields raised against the onslaught of umbrellas and fists. Some wept, others laughed—a laugh born of utter despair. The rain fell harder, as if washing the street clean. Johnson's voice was drowned out; he could hear nothing. He saw only the flashes of cameras, like countless flames of judgement. He murmured his final words: ‘History will not forgive me.’\ Bodyguards shoved him back inside; the door slammed shut. The roar outside persisted. Window panes shattered, fragments scattering across the floor. The live television feed trembled, blurred, and whitened—until only one image remained: a rain-soaked night on Downing Street, flames and silhouettes intertwined。\n"
  ENG_Covid_Events.119.a: "Rage burns like fire, its flames rising high..."
  ENG_Covid_Events.120.t: "The Price of Faith"
  ENG_Covid_Events.120.desc: "The lights in the Treasury were always a harsh white, glaring almost painfully bright. Rishi Sunak sat at the far end of the long table, a stack of freshly printed economic reports beside him. The figures lay out coldly: the stock market had plummeted by 17%, the manufacturing index had fallen to its lowest point on record, and the pound sterling hovered at 1.09. Outside the window, London was gloomy and lightless, even the clock towers of the City swallowed by the rain and mist. He did not drink coffee. Since the outbreak began, he had faced the same question in meetings every day: ‘Should we impose a lockdown?’ The Health Secretary insisted on closing public spaces, while scientific advisers warned of a doubling in deaths. Yet the papers before him detailed a different kind of death: business bankruptcies, worker unemployment, bond defaults, pension fund shortfalls. These were deaths without ventilators, yet equally capable of suffocating the nation. ‘Panic is the greatest risk,’ he murmured. The air in the conference room froze. The Treasury Permanent Secretary looked up, tentatively asking, ‘Are you suggesting... we remain open?’ Sunak nodded. "The markets must keep breathing. If we shut everything down, by the time we reopen, no one will be able to afford wages, and no one will dare invest again. The virus can be contained, but once the market collapses, it may never recover.‘\nHe signed the memorandum. It bore the words: ’Market First Principle". \nThe next day, the press conference convened. Standing at the podium before dozens of cameras, his tone was calm bordering on detachment. ‘We must trust the markets. Britain will not shut down.’ A journalist pressed, ‘But what of the cost? People may die.’ He paused briefly before replying slowly, ‘Economic collapse also claims lives. It just happens more slowly.’\ A deathly silence fell over the room. As the flashbulbs lit up, he caught his reflection on the screen—young, neat, composed, yet strangely unfamiliar in the glare. That night, returning to his Treasury office, the lights of the City of London still burned. He knew those lights weren't hope, merely another form of fear. He murmured to himself\n"
  ENG_Covid_Events.120.a: "“At least the pound isn't dead yet.。”"
  ENG_Covid_Events.121.t: "The Last Flight"
  ENG_Covid_Events.121.desc: "At half past three in the morning, Heathrow Airport remained ablaze with lights. Runway lights flickered on one by one, casting a bluish glow upon the mist. Dispatcher Henry sat in the control tower, headphones on, eyes fixed upon the slender flight path displayed on the screen. ‘BA298, requesting take-off clearance.’ n‘Clearance granted. Wind six knots, Runway Zero Nine.’\nHe replied mechanically, his tone devoid of inflection from habit. \nThis was the seventh cargo aircraft to take off that night, its hold laden with medical equipment, electronic chips, and a handful of business passengers. The airport felt eerily empty; duty-free shops were closed, yet advertising screens looped endlessly: ‘Welcome back to London, the world's gateway never closes.’ Outside the window, aircraft taxied, accelerated, and took off, vanishing into the mist. Henry's fingers lingered on the control panel, lights illuminating his cracked knuckles. He knew most airports worldwide were now closed, continental Europe's airspace nearly paralysed—only Britain remained operational. The government termed it ‘open confidence.’ \nAt midday, the news channel broadcast the Treasury's statement: ‘Maintaining trade flows, sustaining confidence and employment are the nation's paramount priorities.’ The camera cut to the port, where dockers in masks loaded and unloaded containers, the sea breeze carrying the mingled scents of diesel and disinfectant. Someone murmured, ‘This isn't confidence, it's sickness.’\nThat night, Henry received a call from his wife. She worked at the hospital and had just finished a twelve-hour shift. ‘Three more passed away today.’ After a long silence, he said only: ‘I saw the Tokyo flight take off.’ There was a pause on the other end before his wife murmured softly: ‘At least London's lights still burn.’\nAt two in the morning, he stepped out of the control tower after his shift. The distant runway lights still glowed, like the city's final breath. The automated announcement crackled over the radio: ‘London Heathrow, open status normal.’ He looked up at the sky, watching the flashing navigation lights fade into the mist. In that moment, he felt suddenly that the city was like that aeroplane—flying through the night sky, yet no one knew where it would land.
  ENG_Covid_Events.121.a:‘So, where does the money for the aeroplane come from?’"
  ENG_Covid_Events.122.t: "Restarting The Kingdom"
  ENG_Covid_Events.122.desc: "Sunlight streamed down Regent Street for the first time in ages. Shop windows gleamed spotless, while red-and-white banners hung at department store entrances proclaiming: ‘Welcome Back to London.’ Journalists and camera crews bustled at street corners, and government publicity vehicles broadcast cheerful tunes. Tom stood outside his barbershop, scissors in hand. Months of lockdown had left him nearly bankrupt, but today marked the first day of reopening, and he'd opened early. The neighbouring café had also resumed business, and the street echoed with a long-missed bustle. People smiled, clinked glasses, and took selfies while wearing masks, as if everything had truly ended. \nAt midday, the Prime Minister arrived on the scene. Accompanying journalists swarmed around him, flashes popping incessantly. The Prime Minister stepped into a pub, clinked glasses with several patrons for a photo, and declared, ‘Britain is back.’ Applause and cheers rippled through the street as the televised footage swiftly made headlines. \nLeaning against the doorframe, Tom watched the scene with mixed feelings. Reopening meant he could finally earn money and pay his rent, yet he recalled the elderly lady next door, taken away by ambulance just last week. The bookshop owner across the street still hadn't returned—rumoured to have succumbed after contracting the virus. \nIn the evening, a regular customer entered the shop. She coughed softly as she sat down, murmuring, ‘It's lovely to be out at last.’ Tom offered a faint smile but instinctively took a step back. The radio broadcast the news: ‘Clear signs of economic recovery prompt government to expand reopening measures.’ The presenter's tone was steady, even tinged with excitement. \nNight fell, and the streetlights came on. After the crowd dispersed, beer cans, flyers, and discarded masks remained strewn on the pavement. Tom locked up and headed home. The breeze felt cool as the street-side advertising screen flickered: ‘London never stops.’\nHe paused, staring at those words. In that moment, a chill crept over him—for he didn't know whether this city was reborn or merely pretending to live。\n"
  ENG_Covid_Events.122.a: "Cheers!"
  ENG_Covid_Events.123.t: "Freedom Day!"
  ENG_Covid_Events.123.desc: "London's night sky was illuminated by fireworks. Regent Street teemed with crowds, champagne bubbles glistening beneath the streetlights. The television presenter's voice rang out with enthusiasm: ‘Today, Britain formally welcomes “Freedom Day”—a historic moment symbolising the nation's triumph over the pandemic!’\ Reporter Ian navigated the crowds with his camera on his back. His assignment was clear: capture scenes of jubilation—pubs raising glasses, couples sharing kisses, shopping centres reopening. The imagery was indeed striking: London resembled a city awakening from slumber, with music drifting from squares and children dancing beside fountains. \nHe raised his camera but didn't press record. The distant sky blazed crimson and gold with fireworks, their reflections dancing upon the Thames. In that instant, he saw across the river—a row of white refrigerated trucks parked outside St Thomas' Hospital, their sides emblazoned with the NHS logo. Through his headphones, the producer urged: ‘Ian, give me smiles! Give me celebration!’ He drew a deep breath, raised the camera, and swept the lens across the jubilant crowd. Some sang the national anthem; others chanted ‘Freedom is ours!’ He complied, yet his peripheral vision remained fixed on the riverbank. When the news aired, the narration was calm yet hopeful: ‘Britain has finally emerged from the darkness.’ " Ian's footage captured fireworks, smiling faces, flags, and the miniature crowns perched on children's shoulders. Viewers at home saw symbols of triumph, but not the cold light outside the hospital. \nAt dawn, he finished filming and trudged home along the riverbank, his body weary. Drunken revellers still sang in the streets, scattered bottles and paper flags littering the pavement. A breeze swept in from the river, carrying faint medicinal odours and the hum of air conditioning units. He paused as he passed the hospital. The metallic surfaces of refrigerated trucks reflected lingering fireworks light; nurses unloaded supplies while others wept softly. Ian raised his camera toward the row of vehicles, hesitated for seconds, then lowered it. ‘This isn't news,’ he murmured. ‘It's merely reality.’\nBack home, he switched on the television. The screen still looped footage of the celebrations: the Prime Minister smiling on the balcony, captions reading—‘The Summer of Freedom officially begins.’\nHe turned off the television, closed his eyes, and whispered, ‘Are we truly back?’”\n"
  ENG_Covid_Events.123.a: "No one answered."
  ENG_Covid_Events.124.t: "A Painful victory"
  ENG_Covid_Events.124.desc: "London's sky hung leaden and heavy. The streets held no celebrations, only wind. The government declared the pandemic officially over, with press releases headlined ‘Hope Renewed.’ Yet hope did not appear. That day, candles were lit almost simultaneously across Britain. Both banks of the Thames were filled with people—some kneeling, some weeping, some saying nothing. From Scotland to Cornwall, from Manchester to Liverpool, hundreds of thousands of candles flickered in the streets. The radio repeated the BBC's words: ‘Vaccines are being rolled out nationwide, mortality rates are falling.’ Yet everyone knew the news had come too late. Three million had perished; nearly every household held a portrait, a cremation certificate, a voicemail no one wished to revisit. The economy had collapsed. Stock markets ground to a halt, queues formed outside banks, and shop windows were plastered with ‘To Let’ notices. The former middle class became unemployed overnight, their savings reduced to ashes. Petrol rationing, heating oil shortages, and strikes followed relentlessly. People argued with security guards at supermarket entrances over two tins of baby formula. Newspaper headlines proclaimed: ‘The pound remains firm,’ while the next page carried news of energy companies declaring bankruptcy. \nAt dusk, fireworks lit up the Thames—the government's orchestrated ‘relaunch ceremony.’ The capital's lights flickered, the flag raised once more. On television, the commentator's tone remained steady: ‘This is a new beginning.’ Yet beyond the camera's frame, ambulances lined the bridge, doors open, body bags stacked, medical staff's gloves frozen stiff. The fireworks' reflections glinted off the white sheets, as if mocking. \nThe wind grew fiercer. Clashes erupted in the crowd. Shouts of ‘Give us back our children!’ rang out. Shop windows were smashed. Police, shields raised, retreated to the edge of the square. A news camera was knocked over; its lens rolled across the ground, capturing burning placards reading ‘The Price of Freedom.’ \ A government spokesperson read from a script: ‘Britain is entering a difficult but necessary phase of recovery.’ Behind him hung a painting—Big Ben in the fog. A reporter asked, ‘Will the Prime Minister attend the memorial service?’ The spokesperson smiled: ‘The Prime Minister is on holiday.’\nNight deepened. The city's lights flickered out one by one. Street candles flickered out in the wind, only to be relit. A child clutched a tattered teddy bear, asleep in his mother's arms. An elderly man leaned against a bus shelter, his mask still dangling below his chin. The Thames ran as black as ink, its surface dotted with unfinished fireworks debris. The BBC broadcast sounded for the last time: ‘This is London—’\n"
  ENG_Covid_Events.124.a: "We defeated the virus, but lost ourselves in the process.。"