81: Chapter 81 The Messenger

Uncle Zhou had been riding on this road for forty years.

He rode from the age of thirty to seventy, from black hair to white, and from the days when his bicycle was brand new to the days when it rattled everywhere except for its bell.

Many people on the road had spoken to him, but no one knew his full name.

People in town called him Uncle Zhou, the people at the Post Office called him Uncle Zhou, and even the dogs he met on his delivery route recognized him—they wouldn't bark when they saw him, just wagged their tails.

He made two trips every week. One on Tuesday, one on Friday.

Starting from town, passing through Millfield, then to Greenfield, and then turning back.

Each trip was seventy or eighty kilometers, but he never felt tired.

The muscles in his legs were firmer than those of young people, and his back was straighter than those who sat in offices.

Some said he was born for this job, but he didn't think so.

He felt that it was the road that nurtured him—winding, uphill and downhill; if you pedaled hard, it moved forward, and if you didn't, it stayed there. Simple.

He knew where every tree on the side of the road was, even with his eyes closed.

On the third tree at the bend, "Li Xiaojun was here" was carved into the trunk. The handwriting was crooked and the carving was deep; he didn't know when it had been left there. (Such behavior, of course, is not encouraged.)

He took a look every time he passed by, and he had been doing so for twenty years.

He didn't know who Li Xiaojun was, but he knew someone had been there and left their name on the tree.

Further ahead, there was a crooked tree with an old tire hanging from its trunk—a swing hung by some child. The child had long since grown up, but the swing remained.

When the wind was strong, it creaked, making the same sound as his bicycle.

He had noticed something recently. There were more letters.

Not the kind of bills, advertisements, or official documents—those kinds of letters were becoming fewer and fewer, so few that he barely saw any in a week.

They were handwritten letters.

Addresses were scribbled crookedly on the envelopes, and some even had the wrong zip codes; he had to squint for a long time to make them out.

Most of them were addressed to Xinfeng Town.

He used to go to that town, too—once a week, sometimes not even that, with pitifully few letters.

Now, every time he went, his canvas bag was stuffed full.

The number of people in Xinfeng Town had also increased, from a few hundred to over a thousand.

The sign at the entrance to the town read "Population still growing," and he took a look every time he passed by; the number was indeed changing.

He began to pay attention to those letters. Not out of snooping, but by looking at the envelopes. Looking at the sender's address, the recipient's name, and those crooked scribbles.

Some letters were written very carefully, stroke by stroke, as if tracing calligraphy.

Some were written in a rush, the characters flying off the page like leaves blown away by the wind.

Some letters were very thin, with only one sheet of paper inside.

Some were very thick, stuffing the envelope until it bulged.

He could feel which letters were happy and which were sad.

Happy letters had smooth paper, while sad ones had creases, as if the hands had been shaking while writing.

He didn't know how he had learned this; after delivering for forty years, it just came naturally.

On Wednesday, Uncle Zhou was sorting mail at the Post Office.

A young man named Xiao Zhao had recently joined the office. He was in his early twenties, wore glasses, and kept frowning as he looked at the letters.

"Uncle Zhou, how do I deliver these letters? The addresses are all wrong." He held up a letter with "Xinfeng Town, to George" written on the envelope. No house number, no street name, nothing else.

Uncle Zhou took it and glanced at it. "There's only one George in Xinfeng Town. The one who grows mushrooms."

Xiao Zhao was stunned. "How do you know?" Uncle Zhou didn't answer.

He picked up another letter, with "Millfield, to Eric" written on the envelope. No house number either.

"This one," he said, "is for that kid in Millfield who grows mushrooms. His name is Eric."

Xiao Zhao looked at him as if he were a monster. "Uncle Zhou, how do you know?"

Uncle Zhou put the letter into his canvas bag. "Delivered for forty years, how could I not know?"

On Friday morning, Uncle Zhou set off. His bicycle creaked, and the canvas bag on the back was packed full.

He rode slowly but steadily. The mountain road was winding and bumpy in places, but he knew where the potholes were even with his eyes closed.

The first stop was Millfield. When he arrived, the sun had just come up. The sign at the town entrance read "Population 412," and the line below, "Home of Mushrooms," was freshly painted with white letters on a green background, looking very spirited.

He pushed his bike into town. On the main street, some people were sweeping, some were opening doors, and some were basking in the sun. Someone saw him and called out, "Uncle Zhou is here!" He nodded and continued walking inside.

The farm was on the east side of town, a row of white houses with mushroom racks neatly arranged.

He parked his bike at the entrance and fished the letter out of his bag.

The envelope was addressed to "Millfield, to Eric," in crooked handwriting.

He recognized the handwriting—it was Eric's. He had sent many letters, always written very carefully, stroke by stroke.

He walked into the farm. Eric was squatting in front of the racks watering them, and a girl was squatting next to him, also watering.

Neither of them spoke, just squatting there, watering one mushroom after another.

Uncle Zhou stood behind them and waited for a while before calling out, "Eric."

Eric stood up and turned around. He saw the letter in Uncle Zhou's hand and was stunned for a moment. Then he smiled. It was a different kind of smile than when he had first arrived in Millfield. Back then, he didn't know how to smile, and his eyes were empty. Now, there was light in his eyes.

Uncle Zhou handed him the letter. "It's from Xinfeng Town." Eric took it; the envelope was addressed to "To Eric," in familiar handwriting.

He opened it. There was only one sheet of paper inside with a single line of text: "Hello, Eric. My name is Mark. I have read all the letters you wrote. I want to see the mushrooms you grow, too. — Mark"

Eric stared at that line for a long time.

Mark, the data analyst from V Company, the young man who had squatted at the town entrance waiting for three days.

He had written him a letter. He folded the letter and put it into his pocket, which already held several letters, all folded neatly. "Thank you, Uncle Zhou," he said.

Uncle Zhou nodded and turned to leave. After two steps, he looked back.

"There is another letter for you." Eric was stunned.

Uncle Zhou fished another letter from his bag, addressed to "Millfield, to Eric." The handwriting was crooked but written with great force.

Eric took it and opened it. There was only one sheet of paper inside with a single line of text: "Hello, Eric. My name is Martha. I am seventy-three years old. I am learning the guitar. I want to grow mushrooms like yours, too. — Martha" Eric stared at that line for a long time.

Martha, the old lady who was learning guitar in Greenfield, the one who played badly but kept playing.

She had written a letter too. He folded the letter and put it in his pocket. Two letters, two people. One saw him through data, the other saw him through the sound of a guitar.

Uncle Zhou's second stop was Greenfield. When he arrived, the sun was already high in the sky.

The road sign at the entrance was still the old one, with the text barely legible, but the town was different from before.

Some people had repaired their houses, some had opened shops, and some were planting flowers at their doorsteps.

He pushed his bike inside. Someone saw him and called out, "Uncle Zhou is here!" He nodded and continued walking inside.

The church was still the same church, dilapidated and old, but there were a few more chairs at the entrance.

Martha was sitting on one of them, holding her guitar and playing.

She played very slowly and often made mistakes, but she kept playing.

Uncle Zhou stood behind her and waited for a while. When she finished playing a segment, he called out, "Martha."

Martha looked up, saw the letter in his hand, was stunned for a moment, then put down the guitar and stood up.

She walked very slowly, but steadily.

Uncle Zhou handed her the letter. "It's from Millfield."

Martha took it; the envelope was addressed to "Greenfield, to Martha," in crooked handwriting.

She opened it. There was only one sheet of paper inside with a single line of text: "Hello, Martha. My name is Eric. I am twenty-three years old. I am growing mushrooms. I want to learn the guitar like yours, too. — Eric"

Martha stared at that line of text for a long time.

Eric, the boy who grew mushrooms in Millfield, the person who had written so many letters.

He had written to her. She folded the letter and put it into her pocket, where another unsent letter remained—one addressed to Eric, written a long time ago, but never sent.

She looked up at Uncle Zhou. "Uncle Zhou, could you help me mail a letter?" Uncle Zhou nodded and took an envelope from his bag to hand to her.

Martha took the envelope, pulled the long-written letter from her pocket, and tucked it inside. On the envelope, she wrote: Millfield, for Eric.

She handed the letter to Uncle Zhou. Uncle Zhou took it and placed it into his canvas bag. "Alright."

Uncle Zhou's third stop was Xinfeng Town. By the time he arrived, the sun was already dipping to the west.

The road sign at the entrance to the town read "Population Still Growing." He glanced at it; the number had changed again.

He pushed his bicycle inside. Someone saw him and shouted, "Uncle Zhou is here!" Then more people shouted, "Uncle Zhou is here!" He nodded and continued walking forward.

The farm was on the east side of Xinfeng Town, a row of white houses, much larger than the ones in Millfield.

He parked his bicycle at the entrance and rummaged through his bag to find that letter.

On the envelope was written "Xinfeng Town, for George," in shaky, crooked handwriting.

He walked into the farm.

George was crouching in front of a shelf, picking mushrooms. He picked them very slowly, one by one, as if selecting some sort of treasure.

Beside him crouched Edna, leaning on her crutch, watching him pick them.

Uncle Zhou stood behind them for a while before calling out, "George."

George stood up and turned around. Seeing the letter in his hand, he paused for a moment and then smiled.

It was a different kind of smile than when he had first arrived in Xinfeng Town.

Back then, he didn't know how to smile; his eyes were hard.

Now, his eyes were soft.

Uncle Zhou handed him the letter. "It's from Millfield."

George took it. On the envelope, it read "For George," in shaky, crooked handwriting.

He opened it. Inside was just a single sheet of paper with a few lines of text: "Hello, George. That mushroom you grew has grown up. It's just like the other mushrooms—white and bright. I look at it every day. It's growing very well. Thank you for coming. Thank you for looking. — Eric"

George stared at those few lines for a long time.

He folded the letter and put it into his pocket, where a dried mushroom remained—the first one Eric had sent, which he had carried with him ever since.

He looked up at Uncle Zhou. "Uncle Zhou, help me mail a letter."

Uncle Zhou nodded and took an envelope from his bag to hand to him.

George took the envelope, pulled the dried mushroom from his pocket, looked at it for a long time, then put it back. He picked up a pen and wrote on the envelope: Millfield, for Eric.

He wrote a letter, very short, only a few lines. He tucked the letter into the envelope and handed it to Uncle Zhou.

Uncle Zhou took it and placed it into his canvas bag. "Alright."

Uncle Zhou's last stop was the Post Office. By the time he returned to the Post Office, it was already dark.

Xiao Zhao was still sorting mail. Seeing him come in, he shouted, "Uncle Zhou, you're back!"

Uncle Zhou nodded and emptied the letters from his canvas bag onto the table.

It was a thick pile—some addressed to Millfield, some to Greenfield, some to Xinfeng Town, and a few addressed to even more distant places.

Xiao Zhao frowned as he looked at the letters. "Uncle Zhou, can these letters really be delivered? The addresses are all wrong."

Uncle Zhou didn't speak. He sat down and sorted the letters one by one according to their addresses. A pile for Millfield, a pile for Greenfield, a pile for Xinfeng Town. He sorted them very slowly, looking at each one for a long time.

Finally, he picked up one last letter. On the envelope was written "Xinfeng Town, for Everyone," in shaky, crooked handwriting, like a child who had just learned to write.

Xiao Zhao leaned over to look. "Who is this one addressed to?" Uncle Zhou stared at that letter for a long time.

The envelope read "Everyone." He had been delivering mail for forty years and had never seen an address like this.

He thought of those letters—Eric's, Martha's, George's, and the ones from people whose names he didn't know.

Every letter was written with someone's name, and every letter was delivered into someone's hands.

But this one was addressed to "Everyone." He placed the letter into the Xinfeng Town pile. "It's for Xinfeng Town."

Xiao Zhao paused, bewildered. "Everyone? How do you deliver that?" Uncle Zhou stood up and brushed off his pants. "Leave it in the church. They will read it."

That night, Uncle Zhou sat in the Post Office with that letter spread out before him.

The envelope read "Xinfeng Town, for Everyone." He stared at those words for a long time.

Xiao Zhao asked from the side: "Uncle Zhou, what are you looking at?" Uncle Zhou said, "Reading a letter."

Xiao Zhao paused. "You haven't opened it yet, what are you reading?" Uncle Zhou didn't answer.

He put the letter into the drawer with the pile to be delivered tomorrow.

Then he stood up, walked to the door, and looked at the road outside.

The road was winding, stretching into the distance. Moonlight shone on the road, bright white, like a river.

He had been riding for forty years. Riding from youth to old age, from black hair to white.

The people on the road changed generation after generation, and the towns changed one after another.

The postmen he partnered with had changed seven times; some were transferred, some quit, and some grew old.

Only he was still riding.

He thought of those people today—the smile on Eric's face when he received his letter, the look in Martha's eyes when she put down her guitar, the way George put the letter into his pocket.

Those people, those letters, those shaky, crooked handwritings.

He touched his own pocket. It was empty.

Forty years, and he had delivered countless letters, but he had never received one himself.

The envelopes were written with other people's names, delivered into other people's hands.

Not a single one was for him.

He stood at the door and looked at the road. At the other end of the road, there were still letters waiting.

He still had to ride tomorrow.

He turned and walked into the Post Office, closing the door.

The next day, Uncle Zhou set out again. The bicycle creaked, and the canvas bag on the back seat was packed full. He rode very slowly, but very steadily. The sun rose from the east, shining on him, casting a long shadow.

The first stop was Millfield. The sun had just come out, and Eric was standing at the entrance to the town waiting for him. "Uncle Zhou, is there a letter for me?"

Uncle Zhou rummaged through his bag, took out a letter, and handed it to him. Eric took it, opened it, glanced at it, and smiled.

"It's from Martha. She says she's learning the guitar; although she doesn't play well, she's very happy." Uncle Zhou nodded.

He turned to leave. Eric called him back. "Uncle Zhou, wait a moment." Uncle Zhou turned around.

Eric pulled a letter from his pocket and handed it to him. On the envelope was written "Post Office, for Uncle Zhou."

Uncle Zhou froze. He looked at that envelope for a long time.

Forty years, and for the first time, someone had written him a letter.

He took it, his fingers trembling slightly.

"Thank you," he said. Eric smiled.

"Uncle Zhou, you've delivered so many letters, you deserve to receive one too."

Uncle Zhou put the letter into his inner pocket, placing it together with the other letters. He got on his bicycle and continued forward.

The wind blew past his ears, and the trees on both sides of the road rustled. He rode very slowly, but very steadily. He thought of that letter.

On the envelope was written "Post Office, for Uncle Zhou." He didn't know what was written inside the letter.

But he knew that finally, someone had seen him.

The bicycle creaked, moving further and further away on the winding road. He did not open the letter.

He tucked the letter into his pocket, riding through Millfield, riding through Greenfield, riding through Xinfeng Town.

Riding past the doorsteps of people he knew and people he didn't.

He knew that one day, he would open it. But not now. Now, he still had to continue delivering mail.

[Chapter 81 End]