77: Chapter 77 Mark's Letter

On his seventh day in Xinfeng Town, Mark did one thing. He wrote a letter.

It wasn't to anyone in particular. He just wrote.

He sat on the steps in front of the church, holding the paper and pen Jenny had given him, staring at the blank sheet for a long time.

Yuki squatted nearby, hugging her computer, without rushing him.

The paper was very white, without a single word on it.

Mark held the pen awkwardly; he hadn't written anything by hand in many years.

At V Company, all communication consisted of emails, messages, and data reports; his fingers flew across the keyboard, but he rarely touched a pen.

He stared at the blank paper, the same thought turning over and over in his mind: "Why am I writing this letter?"

He remembered arriving in Xinfeng Town on the first day, squatting at the town entrance, looking at that road sign.

He remembered George taking him up that small hill to overlook the entire town.

He remembered Edna speaking to the "Ear" sculpture, her voice very soft, yet he heard every word clearly.

He remembered when Martha played the guitar, her fingers pressing slowly against the strings; if she played a wrong note, she didn't rush, she just started over.

He remembered those letters—the ones from Millfield, from Greenfield, from California, from Mexico, and from Africa.

They were posted on the wall, to be seen, touched, and remembered.

He remembered what Lin Feng said: "What data can see is all in the past. Laughter is the present. The present cannot be analyzed."

He took a deep breath and wrote the first line: "My name is Mark. I am in Xinfeng Town."

Then he stopped. He looked at that line of text and felt it was very thin.

In the world of data, a line of text is just a field, a tag, a unit that can be classified and counted. But now, written on paper, it looked crooked, like a child just learning to write.

He continued writing: "I used to work in data analysis at V Company. Every day, I looked at data, curves, and user behavior. I thought data was everything. Only what could be seen was real."

He stopped and looked out the window.

Sunlight shone on the white house on the farm. George was walking out, holding a basket of mushrooms. He squatted in front of the rack, picking them one by one. His movements were slow but steady.

Mark watched him, remembering what George said on the hill that day: "The first time I went down into the mine, I was eighteen. When I came out, I was sixty-three. A whole lifetime, just gone."

Could data see those forty-five years? Could it see the coal, the darkness, the days without light? Could it see the moment when he came up from the mine, squatted in front of the mushroom rack, and saw the white light?

He continued writing: "Now I am here. There are many unseen things here. Edna's old man, the smile Martha wears when playing guitar, the things George thinks about while growing mushrooms. Data cannot see these things."

He wrote very slowly. He had to think for a long time for every word. It wasn't about how to write, but about how to say it.

He remembered when Edna spoke to the "Ear," her voice very soft, but he had heard it clearly.

She said: "Old man, can you see it?" No one answered. But she smiled. Could data see that kind of smile? Could it analyze it? Could it explain it?

He continued writing: "Someone asked me what these things count for. Someone said, they count as living. I don't know. But I know they are there. In the open space under the moonlight, in the 'Ear' at the church, in the white light of the mushroom rack. I am trying to feel them. Sometimes I feel a little bit, sometimes nothing at all. But I am trying."

He put down the pen. The letter was finished. It was very short. Shorter than any data report he had ever written.

But he stared at the paper and felt it was very heavy.

Yuki leaned over to look. Mark was a bit embarrassed: "It's not written well."

Yuki shook her head and took a note out of her pocket, handing it to him.

Mark took it and read it; there was only one line on the note: "If you write it out, it is good."

In the afternoon, Mark went to find Jenny.

Jenny was in the church organizing the letters; three wooden boxes were open, and the letters were spread out on the floor one by one.

She saw Mark and looked up. "Finished writing?"

Mark was stunned for a moment: "How did you know?"

Jenny smiled: "Yuki told me. Let me see it."

Mark handed her the letter. Jenny took it and lowered her head to read, reading very slowly, line by line, as if reading something very important.

After finishing, she looked up at Mark. "Who do you want to send it to?" Mark thought for a moment and said: "I don't know. I just wanted to write it."

Jenny nodded and took a letter out of the box, handing it to him. "Take a look at this."

Mark took it. The letter was very short, with only a few lines: "My name is Mary. I am sixty-eight. I live alone. Today I am writing a letter to someone for the first time. I don't know what to write. So I'll just write that I am still alive."

Mark stared at those few lines for a long time. Sixty-eight years old, living alone. Writing a letter for the first time. Not knowing what to write. Just writing that she was still alive.

He remembered how many data reports he had written, each with a title, abstract, conclusion, and recommendations. But he had never written words like these—I am still alive.

He returned the letter to Jenny. "What happened to her later?"

Jenny smiled: "Later she wrote another one. She said someone had written back to her. She said she was very happy."

She put Mark's letter into the box as well. "Yours will get a reply, too."

Mark walked out of the church and saw Martha sitting at the entrance playing the guitar. She was still playing that old song, still making mistakes often, but she kept playing.

Mark walked over and sat down next to her. Martha stopped and looked at him.

"Did you write a letter?" Mark nodded. "How did you know?"

Martha smiled: "In this town, everything is known." She lowered her head and continued playing the guitar.

As she played, she suddenly stopped and looked at Mark. "Do you know why I play the guitar?" Mark shook his head.

Martha said: "Because my husband used to like to listen. When he was alive, he always asked me to sing. I couldn't sing, so he would sing himself. He sang even worse than me." She smiled, a smile different from usual.

"He has been gone for fifteen years. I am learning the guitar now to let him listen. Even though he can't hear, I feel that he is listening."

Mark looked at her and said nothing. He remembered his own data, those curves, those user behaviors. In that data, some people were alive, some were dead, some were happy, some were sad. But he had never thought that behind that data, someone might be listening.

Martha handed him the guitar. "You 'write' a 'letter' too. Send it to that unseen person." Mark took the guitar, pressed his fingers on the strings, and plucked once. It was a dull sound, not pleasant. But he felt that someone was listening.

That night, Mark sat under the old locust tree, holding the letter. Lin Feng was squatting nearby, chewing on a straw.

Mark said: "Lin Feng, I want to send this letter out. But I don't know who to send it to."

Lin Feng thought for a moment and said: "Send it to the first person who writes back to you."

Mark was stunned: "Who would write back to me?"

Lin Feng pointed to the people in the distance: "There will always be someone."

The next morning, Mark went to the church to find Jenny. "I want to send the letter out."

Jenny nodded and took an envelope out of the box, handing it to him. "Write the address."

Mark held the envelope, not knowing what to write. Jenny said: "Just write 'Xinfeng Town'."

Mark was stunned: "Just write this?" Jenny nodded: "That's enough. Anything sent to Xinfeng Town will arrive." Mark wrote "Xinfeng Town" on the envelope, then folded the letter and put it inside.

Jenny took the envelope and put it into the box. "Now wait," she said.

Mark waited for three days. On the first day, he went to the church every hour to check. There was no letter for him in the box. On the second day, he went every two hours to check. Still nothing. On the third day, he didn't want to go check anymore.

He sat under the old locust tree, staring at the road sign. Yuki walked over and squatted next to him.

Mark said: "Maybe no one will reply." Yuki didn't speak.

Mark said: "Maybe it wasn't written well." Yuki still didn't speak.

Mark said: "Maybe—" Yuki handed him a note.

Mark took it and read it; there was only one line on the note: "Someone replied."

When Mark ran into the church, Jenny was holding a letter. She saw him and smiled.

"It's yours." Mark took it. On the envelope, it was written "To Mark," the handwriting crooked, like a child just learning to write.

He opened the envelope; there was only one sheet of paper inside. There were only a few lines on the paper:

"Hello, Mark. My name is Eric. You have met me. The day you left, you sent me a message. You said someone had seen my letter. I read it for a long time. I decided to write one too. I'm sending it to you. Thank you for seeing."

Mark stared at those few lines for a long time. Eric. That child who grew mushrooms in Millfield, that child who saw himself in the white light of the mushroom rack. He had written him a letter.

Jenny asked from the side: "Who wrote it?" Mark said: "That child from Millfield." Jenny smiled. "See, someone replied."

Mark folded the letter and put it into his pocket. In that pocket, there were already several notes.

He touched them, and the corners of his mouth curled up.

That night, Mark sat under the old locust tree and wrote another letter. This time, he wrote very smoothly:

"Eric, I received your letter. I saw the mushrooms you wrote about. I also saw those you grew. I have read every one of the handwritten letters you sent. I remember every word you wrote. Thank you for writing. Thank you for seeing."

After he finished, he went to find Jenny. "Send this one to Millfield." Jenny took the letter, glanced at it, and smiled. "Okay."

Mark stood at the church entrance, looking at the road. The road was winding, stretching into the distance.

He remembered that when he first came to Xinfeng Town, it was also this road.

At that time, he didn't know where this road would lead. Now he knew.

This road leads to Millfield, to Greenfield, and into the hands of people he hasn't met but knows.

In those letters, in those words.

He touched the letter in his pocket; it was still there. He smiled. He turned and walked into the night. The leaves of the old locust tree rustled in the wind. He remembered the letter he had written— "My name is Mark. I am in Xinfeng Town."

Now he knew that this letter had been answered.

[Chapter 77 End]