107: Chapter 107 The Scars on the Wall
On an overcast afternoon, the sunlight was blocked by clouds, and the church was much darker than usual.
Lin Xiaohe crouched at the base of the wall as usual, her fingers slowly tracing along the wooden boards.
When she traced past that scrap of paper, her fingertip suddenly sank into a small pit.
She pulled her hand back and leaned in to look—there was a hole in the wooden board, smaller than her fingernail, round, with blackened edges and empty inside.
She felt around the side, and found another. And next to that, another one.
She stood up and felt the wall from one end to the other, from the bottom to the top.
There were holes everywhere, densely packed.
Some holes still had half of a rusted nail embedded in them, some were empty, and some were half-covered by letters.
She didn't know how these holes had appeared, but she knew they had been here for a long time.
She ran to find Jenny and pulled her by the hand to the wall.
"You feel it."
Jenny reached out—one, two, three—she felt row after row, then finally pulled her hand back and looked at the holes.
"These were left by thumbtacks."
She pulled a rusty thumbtack from the wall and placed it in Lin Xiaohe's palm.
"It was stuck into the wall so the letters wouldn't fall. Later, the letters grew old, but the thumbtacks remained. Then, even the thumbtacks fell out, but the holes remained."
Lin Xiaohe placed the thumbtack next to those holes.
The thumbtack was red and rusted, unlike the letter paper, but she felt that, just like those letters, it too had left something on the wall.
The news reached the farm, and George put down his mushrooms and walked to the church.
He crouched at the base of the wall, reached out, and touched the holes.
One, two, three—he remembered when he had built the wall, using new wooden boards, without a single hole.
Later, people posted letters and nailed them up with thumbtacks.
Later, the letters fell off, but the thumbtacks remained.
Later, the thumbtacks fell off, but the holes remained.
Now those holes were densely packed, like the calluses on his hands.
He stood up, lingered at the doorway for a moment, then walked back and posted a letter: "The holes in the wall were left by thumbtacks. The thumbtacks were left by the people who posted letters. The letters were left by the people who wrote them. Thank you to those who left the holes. Thank you to the child who found the holes. She is seven years old, and her name is Lin Xiaohe."
After that letter was posted, more people came to the church to touch the holes.
Some touched them while standing, some while crouching, and some stuck their fingers into the holes.
When they found a deep one, they would touch it for a while longer; when they found a shallow one, they would press it gently; when they found an empty one, they would sigh.
Lin Xiaohe came every day.
She discovered that some holes were deep, some were shallow, some had smooth edges, and some were rough.
Some holes still had scraps of paper stuffed inside, while others had nothing at all.
Every hole was different.
One day, she brought a box of colored modeling clay.
She pinched off a small piece of red clay, rolled it into a tiny ball, stuffed it into a hole, and pressed it flat and smooth with her hand.
Then she pinched off a yellow piece and stuffed it into another, and pinched off a blue piece to stuff into yet another.
She stuffed one after another, from one end of the wall to the other, from the bottom to the top.
Jenny walked over and asked what she was doing.
"Patching the holes in the wall," she replied.
"What happens if you patch them?"
"If I patch them, it will be smooth. If it's smooth, no one will know there were holes there."
She patched them all afternoon.
The holes in the wall were filled with modeling clay—red, yellow, blue, and green.
She stood up and looked at the patched holes; they were different from the wooden boards, the letter paper, the cassette tapes, and the drawings, but they were there.
She reached out and touched a red one—soft and sticky, unlike the wooden board.
But she felt that, just like those holes, it was there.
Molly heard about it and ran to the church.
She crouched next to Lin Xiaohe, looking at the colorful dots on the wall.
She reached out and pressed a red one—soft and sticky—creating a dent.
Then she pressed a yellow one, creating another dent.
She pressed one after another, then stood up and walked to the doorway, looking at Old Zhou's bicycle.
The red cloth strip on the handlebars fluttered in the wind.
She walked back and posted a letter: "Today I saw a child patching the holes in the wall. She is seven years old, and her name is Lin Xiaohe. She used modeling clay—red, yellow, blue, and green. She patched them, and the holes became smooth. But she pressed them, and there was a dent again. Thank you for patching them."
After that letter was posted, more people came to the church to patch the holes.
Some used modeling clay, some used crayons, some used clay, and some used dough.
They stuffed, smeared, and pressed various materials into the holes.
The patches on the wall grew more and more numerous—red, yellow, blue, green, white, brown, and black.
Letters, cassette tapes, drawings, hot water bottles, bottles, dreams, greeting cards, gifts, patches—they were crowded together, layered one on top of another.
Jenny came every day to press those patches against the wall.
If a hole was deep, she pressed a little longer; if it was shallow, she pressed a little less; if a hole was smooth, she didn't press.
She pressed very slowly, spending a long time on each patch, as if she were healing the wall.
That evening, George came to the church.
He stood in front of the wall looking at those colorful patches, then crouched down and pressed a red one.
It was soft and sticky, and he created a dent.
He pressed a yellow one, creating another dent.
He pressed one after another, then stood up and walked to the doorway.
The bicycle was still there, and the red cloth strip was fluttering in the wind.
He walked back and posted a letter: "Today I saw the holes in the wall being patched. With modeling clay—red, yellow, blue, and green. They were patched, and the holes became smooth. But after pressing, there was a dent again. The holes are still there. They are just covered up. Thank you to those who patched the holes. Thank you to the one who pressed the dents. She is seven years old, and her name is Lin Xiaohe."
That night, Lin Feng was crouching under the old locust tree.
Margaret came over with a plate of mushrooms and crouched down beside him.
"Lin Feng, Lin Xiaohe has been patching the holes in the wall."
Lin Feng nodded.
"Is it fixed?"
Lin Feng thought for a moment.
"No. If you press it, there's a dent again."
"Then what should be done?"
Lin Feng pointed in the direction of the church.
"The hole is there; it is just there. No need to patch it."
The next morning, Old Zhou came to deliver mail.
He pushed the door open and went in; there were many more colorful patches on the wall.
He stood in front of it for a long time, remembering the first time he had seen the holes—he had forgotten where he saw them, but he remembered that he had seen them.
He turned, pushed the door open, and walked into the morning light.
The bicycle creaked, and he climbed on and rode slowly forward.
The road wound and stretched into the distance, and the wind tousled his hair.
He rode very slowly, but very steadily.
He thought of those letters, drawings, cassette tapes, shadows, hot water bottles, bottles, dreams, greeting cards, gifts, patches, and the child who patched the holes in the wall.
She had patched them with modeling clay, but after pressing, there was a dent again.
The holes were still there, just covered up.
Now people were bringing patches and sticking them on the wall.
Patching the holes for the wall, and also for those who couldn't see the holes to see.
He smiled and continued riding forward.
He rode very slowly, but very steadily.
[ Chapter 107 End ]