79: Chapter 79 What is Seen, What is Seen

After Eric taped those two letters to the wall, the first thing he did every morning upon waking was look at them. Mark's, Yuki's. They were posted side by side, like two little windows.

Sarah said he was crazy. "One look at a letter is enough. You look at them every day—what, are you expecting them to bloom into flowers?"

Eric ignored her. He stared at those crooked, messy scrawls, feeling that each time he looked, they were different. Sometimes he saw Mark's words, "I saw it," and sometimes he saw what Yuki wrote, "What you saw, I also saw." There was even one time he saw the sentence he had written in his own letter—"I am no longer afraid of being seen."

He stared at that sentence for a long time. Then he picked up a pen and wrote another letter.

It wasn't addressed to Mark, nor to Yuki. It was addressed to Xinfeng Town. There was no recipient, just three words written on the envelope: Xinfeng Town.

He wrote in the letter: "My name is Eric. I am twenty-three. I didn't graduate from university. I don't know what I can do. The people at Millfield said, 'You can grow mushrooms.' So I did. The mushrooms are growing very well. Today, I saw myself. In the white light of the mushroom racks, I saw myself squatting there, holding a mushroom in my hands. That was me. I saw it."

After finishing, he went to find Dave. Dave was basking in the sun at the farm entrance, holding a mushroom and turning it over and over, examining it. Eric handed him the letter. Dave took it and glanced at the words on the envelope.

"Xinfeng Town? Who is this for?"

Eric said, "For the people who can see."

Dave stared at him for three seconds, then smiled. "Alright."

He tucked the letter into his pocket. "The postman comes tomorrow; I'll send it for you."

The next day, the postman didn't come. The third day, he didn't come either. On the fourth day, Sarah ran to the edge of town and stood in front of that winding road, looking for a long time. There was nothing.

She ran back and found Eric. "Is the postman not coming anymore?"

Eric thought for a moment and said, "Maybe it's raining, and the road is hard to travel."

Sarah looked up at the sky. The sun was bright; there wasn't a drop of rain.

Eric didn't speak. He squatted in the farm and continued watering. The mushrooms on the racks were everywhere, shining white. He watered them slowly, making sure each one got enough. As he watered, he suddenly stopped. He remembered the sentence in Mark's letter—"Before you can see it, you must first believe it is there."

He put down the hose, stood up, and walked to the edge of town. Sarah followed behind. The two of them squatted by the side of the road, watching it. The road wound and twisted, stretching off into the distance. There was nothing.

Sarah asked, "Do you believe?"

Eric said, "I believe."

Sarah asked again, "How do you know it will come?"

Eric thought for a moment and said, "I don't know. But I believe."

The sun climbed from the east to the zenith, then slid down to the west. At the end of the road, there was still nothing. Sarah's legs went numb from squatting; she stood up, took a few steps, then squatted down again. "How much longer do we have to wait?"

Eric didn't answer. He watched the end of the road, watching the sunset glow turn redder and redder. Then he saw a small black dot. The dot grew larger and larger, slowly turning into a bicycle. Squeak, squeak—it rode over from the end of the road.

The old postman stopped in front of them and pulled a letter from his bag. "From Xinfeng Town."

Eric took it. The envelope was addressed to "Eric," but the handwriting wasn't Mark's, nor was it Yuki's. It was a strange, crooked scrawl, like that of a child who had just learned to write.

He opened the envelope. Inside was only a single sheet of paper with a few lines of text:

"Hello, Eric. My name is George. I am seventy-three years old. I mined coal for forty-five years. You said you saw yourself in the white light of the mushroom racks. I saw it too. I also saw myself in the white light of the mushroom racks. Your mushrooms will only grow better and better."

Eric stared at those few lines for a long time. George. He had never met this person, but he had seen the name on the happiness map. The old man in Xinfeng Town who grew mushrooms, the one who had mined coal for forty-five years. He had written him a letter.

Sarah leaned in. "Who wrote it?"

Eric said, "George. The one from Xinfeng Town."

Sarah was stunned. "Why would he write you a letter?"

Eric thought for a moment and said, "Because he also saw it."

That night, Eric taped that letter to the wall, too. Side by side with Mark's and Yuki's. Three letters, three different people. He looked at them and suddenly wondered, what did those people look like? Mark was thin, wore glasses, and liked to squat when he spoke. Yuki didn't like to talk but would pass notes. George was seventy-three, had calluses on his hands, and had grown mushrooms his whole life.

He had never met them, but he felt he knew them.

He picked up his pen and wrote another letter. This time, he sent it to George.

"Hello, George. I received your letter. You said you also saw yourself in the white light of the mushroom racks. I saw that white light you mentioned. It's not the light of a lamp; it's the light of the mushrooms. White and bright, like stars. When you grow mushrooms, do you see that light too? After forty-five years of growing them, can you see it every time?"

After finishing, he handed the letter to Dave. Dave glanced at it and smiled. "George is a man of few words. But he knows how to see."

After that letter was sent, Eric went to the edge of town every day to wait for the postman. Not waiting for a reply, but waiting for that squeak-squeak sound. He didn't even know what he was waiting for. Maybe just waiting.

Sarah asked him, "You go every day—aren't you tired?"

Eric said, "No."

Sarah asked, "What are you looking at?"

Eric thought for a moment and said, "Looking at the road."

Sarah didn't understand. But she didn't ask again. She went with him. The two of them squatted at the edge of town, watching the road. The road wound and twisted, stretching into the distance. Sometimes a car passed, sometimes a bird flew by, sometimes there was nothing. But they went every day. Squatting, watching.

One day, Dave walked over and squatted beside them. The three of them squatted in a row, watching the road.

Dave asked, "What are you two looking at?"

Eric said, "Looking at the road."

Dave smiled. "What's so interesting about the road?"

Eric thought for a moment and said, "At the end of the road, there are people."

Dave didn't speak. He squatted there, watching the end of the road for a long time. Then he stood up and brushed off his pants. "As long as there are people, that's good."

On the fifth day, a reply came. It wasn't written by George; it was written by Edna.

The envelope was addressed to "Eric," the handwriting crooked and even harder to read than George's. Eric opened it; inside was only a single sheet of paper. There were several scratch marks on the paper, words crossed out and rewritten, as if it had been edited many times.

"Hello, Eric. My name is Edna. I am eighty-three years old. My husband passed away twenty years ago. That light you mentioned—I have seen it. Not with my eyes. With this."

She had written the words "chest," but she had written them wrong, crossed them out, and rewritten them. There was an ink blot beside it, as if she had paused for a long time, thinking about how to write the next sentence.

"George doesn't like to talk. He read your letter to me. He read it three times. He said, 'That child, he saw the light.' He asked me to tell you that he saw everything you wrote. He said the white light on the mushroom racks is the mushrooms breathing. What you saw is them breathing. He also said—he has been growing them for forty-five years, and he doesn't see it every time. But today, he saw it."

Eric stared at the word "today" for a long time. When George wrote that letter, it was today. The day he saw the light was also today.

He taped the letter to the wall. The fourth one. He stared at those scratch marks for a long time. George didn't like to talk, but he had Edna tell him. Edna was eighty-three, her hands were shaking, and she had written it over and over. She was afraid he wouldn't understand.

Sarah stood beside him, also staring at the scratch marks. "She wrote it several times."

Eric nodded.

Sarah said, "She was afraid you wouldn't understand."

Eric took the letter down from the wall and held it in his hand. The paper was very thin, the handwriting crooked. But he felt that it was the heaviest letter he had ever seen.

That night, Eric sat at the farm entrance, clutching those four letters in his hand. Dave walked over and handed him a glass of wine.

"Finished reading?"

Eric nodded.

Dave sat down beside him, looking at the distant lights. "You've written a lot of letters."

Eric said, "Mm."

Dave asked, "Aren't you afraid no one will write back?"

Eric thought for a moment and said, "No."

Dave looked at him.

Eric said, "If you write it, someone will see it."

Dave smiled. "How do you know?"

Eric pointed at the four letters on the wall: "Because they replied."

The next day, Eric wrote another letter. This time, he wrote for a long time. He sat at the farm entrance with paper and pen spread out before him. Sarah squatted beside him, waiting. He wrote a few lines, stopped, thought, then wrote a few more. Sarah leaned over to look, and he hurriedly covered it with his hand.

"Don't look," he said.

Sarah smiled: "What are you afraid of?"

Eric didn't speak. He continued writing. He wrote for a long time, and finally, he finished.

He stood up and went to find Dave.

"Who is this for?" Dave asked.

Eric thought for a moment and said, "Send it to Xinfeng Town. The kind that everyone can see."

Dave took the letter and glanced at it. Three words were written on the envelope: Xinfeng Town.

He tucked the letter into his pocket. "Alright."

After that letter was sent, Eric didn't go to the edge of town to wait anymore. Every day he went to the farm, watered, fertilized, and talked to the mushrooms. The mushrooms grew better and better, patches upon patches, shining white. Dave said this batch of mushrooms could be sold to three different states.

Eric heard this but didn't speak. He looked at those mushrooms, feeling they weren't just mushrooms. They were those letters, those words, that light sent from Xinfeng Town.

One day, Sarah ran to find him. "Eric! A lot of letters came!"

Eric was stunned. He ran to the church and saw Dave standing there, holding a stack of letters in his arms. A thick stack, thicker than his arm.

Dave placed the letters on the table. "From Xinfeng Town. They are all for you."

Eric picked up the one on top. The envelope was addressed to "Eric," the handwriting crooked. He opened it; inside was only a sheet of paper with a single line of text:

"Hello, Eric. My name is Mike. I want to grow your mushrooms too. —Mike"

He picked up the second one. Also only a single line of text:

"Eric, I saw your letter. I am writing letters too. —Sam"

The third one: "Eric, my name is Chris. You need to water the mushrooms thoroughly, but don't drown them. The first time I grew them, I watered them too much and almost drowned them. —Chris"

The fourth one: "Eric, my name is Jenny. I've kept the letters you wrote in a box. I put them next to the 'Ear.' Someone looks at them every day. —Jenny"

The fifth one: "Eric, my name is Tony. What you saw, I also saw. Don't be afraid. The things you see will not disappear. —Tony"

The sixth one, the seventh one, the eighth one.

Each one was very short, and each one had only a few lines of text. But each one was handwritten. Each one had crooked, messy handwriting. Mike's handwriting was large, like he was shouting. Sam's handwriting was light, like he was singing. Chris's handwriting was crowded together, as if he were afraid he wouldn't have enough room. Jenny's handwriting was neat and tidy, like the letters she organized. Tony's handwriting was slow, stroke by stroke, as if he were thinking things over.

Sarah stood beside him, watching the letters, her eyes turning red. "They are all writing letters."

Eric didn't speak. He picked up the letters one by one, reading them one by one. He read very slowly. After finishing one, he set it aside. Then he read the next. Some of the handwriting was clear, some blurred; some were written on grid paper, some on crumpled paper. But each one had been written by someone.

He finished the last one and looked up. Dave was standing in the doorway, watching him.

"These are all replies to you," Dave said.

Eric looked at the stack of letters on the table. A thick stack, thicker than his arm. He remembered the first letter he wrote, with only a few lines, sent to Xinfeng Town, not knowing who would read it. Now he knew. George read it, Edna read it, Mike read it, Sam read it, Jenny read it, Chris read it, Tony read it. And those whose names he didn't know had also read it.

That night, Eric taped that stack of letters to the wall as well. One wall, covered completely. Mark's, Yuki's, George's, Edna's, Mike's, Sam's, Jenny's, Chris's, Tony's. And those of the people whose names he didn't know. Dense and crowded, like a patch of white mushrooms.

Sarah stood in front of the wall, looking for a long time. "You look at them every day?"

Eric nodded.

Sarah asked, "Don't you get tired of it?"

Eric thought for a moment and said, "No. Every day, someone writes."

He walked to the table, picked up his pen, and wrote another letter. This time, he wrote very briefly. Only a single line of text:

"My name is Eric. I am twenty-three. I didn't graduate from university. I am growing mushrooms. Today, I saw you all. In those letters. Every word you wrote, I saw it."

He finished, folded the letter, and put it into an envelope. On the envelope, he wrote: Xinfeng Town.

Sarah, watching from the side, asked, "Who is this for?"

Eric thought for a moment and said, "For everyone who wrote a letter."

Early the next morning, Eric handed the letter to Dave.

Dave took it, glanced at it, and smiled. "Sending another one?"

Eric nodded.

Dave tucked the letter into his pocket. "This time, even more people will reply."

Eric stood at the farm entrance, watching Dave walk away. Sunlight shone on the mushroom racks, bright white, like a field of stars. He squatted down, cupped a mushroom, and placed it in his palm. The mushroom was small, white, and exactly the same as the one he had seen the first time.

He said to the mushroom, "You saw it. I saw it too."

The mushroom wouldn't answer. But he felt that it was glowing.

[Chapter 79 End]