114: Chapter 114 Sounds on the Road
When Uncle Zhou rode out from the church entrance, the sun had just risen, and the puddles on the ground were not yet dry; his bicycle wheels rolled over them, splashing up tiny droplets of water.
He rode very slowly, and the canvas bag on his back seat was much lighter today—people had been writing fewer letters recently, and there were fewer sheets of paper torn from exercise books.
He did not know if this was a good thing or a bad thing, but he was not in a hurry.
The road was still the same road, winding and stretching off into the distance.
When he rode to the tree carved with "Li Xiaojun was here," he stopped.
It wasn't because he was tired; he wanted to listen.
He propped his bicycle by the roadside, squatted down, and brought his Ear close to the tree trunk.
Was there a sound inside the tree? He didn't know.
But he felt there should be.
The tree had lived for so many years; it ought to have something to say.
He listened for a long time but heard nothing.
The trunk was hard, cool, and motionless.
He stood up and patted the bark, like patting an old friend.
"Don't you have anything to say?" he asked.
The tree did not answer.
The wind blew over, and the leaves rustled.
He smiled, got on his bike, and continued forward.
The first stop was still Millfield.
By the time he arrived, the sun was already high in the sky, and Eric was waiting for him at the entrance of the town, holding a mushroom in his hands.
It wasn't white; it was brown, and there were cracks on its cap.
"Uncle Zhou, look." Eric handed the mushroom over. "It just grew. I haven't seen this kind before."
Uncle Zhou took it and looked it over carefully.
The mushroom was not big, a little thicker than his thumb, and the edges of the cap were curled up like a small bowl.
He leaned in and smelled it; it had an earthy scent, with a hint of sweetness.
"Can you eat it?" he asked.
Eric shook his head. "I don't know. I'll keep it for now and see how it grows."
Uncle Zhou gave the mushroom back to him and fished a letter out of his bag.
On the envelope was written "Millfield, to Eric," in crooked handwriting, like a child learning to write.
Eric opened it, took a look, and smiled.
"It's from Molly. She said she saw a cat in front of the Coffee Shop, grey with green eyes. The cat was squatting on the steps, staring into the shop. She poured it a saucer of milk, and it drank two sips and left. It came back the next day. She said she named the cat 'Milk Cap'."
Uncle Zhou nodded. "Cats wait for people too."
Eric paused for a moment, then smiled. "Maybe."
Uncle Zhou's second stop was Greenfield.
When he arrived, Martha was sitting by the entrance, and she didn't have her guitar in her arms.
When she saw Uncle Zhou, she stood up, took something out of her pocket, and handed it to him.
It was a guitar string, broken; one end was curled up, and the other was frayed.
"One broke," she said. "I was playing, and it just snapped. I was startled at first, but then I thought, it was about time. This string has been on for years."
Uncle Zhou took the broken string and placed it in his palm.
The string was very thin and light, shimmering with a silver light in the sunlight.
He thought of the chain on his own bike, which had also broken; he had reconnected it, and it broke again, and he reconnected it again.
It was still riding now, but he didn't know how much longer it would last.
"Replace it with a new one," he said.
Martha nodded. "I did. The new string sounds different, a bit brighter. When playing, my hands have to get used to it again."
She took a letter out of her pocket and handed it to Uncle Zhou. "Send it to Xinfeng Town. For the Wall."
Uncle Zhou took it and put it in his canvas bag. He didn't ask if the Wall was doing well. He knew the Wall was still there, just as it had always been.
Uncle Zhou's third stop was the end of that road—farther than Greenfield, that village which had been completely emptied out.
He hadn't been here for a long time because no one wrote letters, and no one received them.
But he wanted to come and see it today.
He parked his bike at the entrance of the village; the old locust tree was still there, and the stone under the tree was covered in moss.
He squatted down and touched the stone. It was cool and damp, just like in his memory.
He closed his eyes and listened for a while. There was nothing.
No human voices, no dog barking, no rooster crowing.
Only the rustling sound of the wind through the leaves and his own breathing.
He stood up and walked around the village.
The houses were still there; some had collapsed, some were crooked, some doors were open, and inside, they were empty.
He walked to the one furthest inside; the door was gone, and the windows were shattered.
He stood in the doorway and saw writing on the wall, written in chalk, crooked: "Li Xiaojun, I hate you."
Below it was another line, in different handwriting: "Li Xiaojun, I'm sorry."
He looked at it for a long time, then turned and left.
He didn't know who Li Xiaojun was, but he knew that someone had waited here, someone had hated here, and someone had apologized here.
Those words were still on the wall, but no one was looking at them anymore.
He got on his bike and turned back.
The canvas bag on the back seat was still just as light, but he felt that today had been a trip worth making.
When he returned to Xinfeng Town, the sun was already leaning to the west.
He didn't go to the church, but instead went to the Coffee Shop.
Molly was wiping cups behind the counter, and when she saw him come in, she paused for a moment.
"Uncle Zhou? Is there a letter for me today?"
Uncle Zhou shook his head. "No. But someone asked me to pass on a message."
Molly put down the cup. "What message?"
Uncle Zhou said, "Eric received your letter. He said that cat, the one named 'Milk Cap,' he has remembered it."
Molly smiled. She turned, took a saucer of milk from under the counter, walked to the door, and set it on the steps.
"It hasn't come yet today," she said, "but it should be here soon."
Uncle Zhou squatted down and looked at the saucer of milk. It was white, glowing with an orange-red light in the setting sun.
He remembered the first letter he had delivered, which had also been placed on steps like these.
At that time, he was still a young man with strong legs, and he didn't feel tired even after riding all day.
Now he was old, and his bike was old, but the milk was still white, and the steps were still cool.
He stood up and patted Molly on the shoulder. "It will come."
Uncle Zhou didn't go to the church again. He parked his bicycle at the entrance, took off his canvas bag, and placed it in the bike basket.
He squatted on the steps, looking at that road. The road was winding, stretching off into the distance.
He had been riding for forty years and didn't know how much longer he could ride. But he wasn't in a hurry. Ride slowly, and he would always get there.
He thought of the sounds he had heard today—the rustling of leaves, the crisp snap of a broken guitar string, the sound of milk being poured into a saucer, and that "I'm sorry" on the wall.
Those sounds were not loud, but they were all there.
Like the breathing inside the walls, like the words on the letter paper, like those things that could not be seen but existed.
He smiled, stood up, pushed open the door, and walked into the church.
The wall was still there, the letters were still there, the chairs were still there, and the stethoscopes were still there.
He walked to the front of the wall, reached out, and touched Eric's letter.
The paper had turned yellow and the edges were curled, but he felt it breathing. Very slowly, very lightly, one beat, another beat.
He didn't use the stethoscope, nor did he press his Ear against it.
He just placed his hand there, feeling it. Maybe he felt it, maybe he didn't. But he felt it was enough.
He turned, pushed open the door, and walked into the twilight.
The bicycle was still creaking at the entrance; he got 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.
[Chapter 114 End]