82: Chapter 82 The Letter on the Wall

When Old Zhou placed that letter "To Everyone" in the church, it was Friday afternoon.

There was no one in the church. Sunlight shone in through the stained-glass windows, falling onto the wall covered in letters. The letters were densely packed—some new, some old, some white, some yellow. Mark's, Yuki's, George's, Edna's, Mike's, Sam's, Jenny's, Chris's, Tony's. And those from people whose names he didn't know.

Old Zhou stood in front of the wall, watching for a long time. He delivered letters every day, but he had never stood here and looked at them. Those letters, one by one, had all been delivered by his own hands. He rode from the Post Office to Millfield, from Millfield to Greenfield, and from Greenfield to Xinfeng Town. He handed them to Eric, to Martha, and to George. Then, they were posted here.

He reached out and touched the nearest one. It was written by Eric, the handwriting crooked, like a child who had just learned to write. He recognized this script. He had delivered many of them, and every one was written with great care, stroke by stroke. After touching it, he pulled his hand back. It was time for him to leave.

He turned and walked toward the door. Reaching the doorway, he stopped and looked back. That wall, filled to the brim, looked like a patch of white mushrooms. He stood for a moment, then pushed open the door and walked into the sunlight.

That night, the church was full of people.

George stood before the altar, holding that letter "To Everyone" in his hand. On the envelope, it was written, "To Everyone in Xinfeng Town." The handwriting was crooked, but written with great force. He opened it; inside was only a single sheet of paper, and on the paper was only one line:

"My name is Eric. Twenty-three years old. Didn't finish college. I grow mushrooms. Today, I saw you all. In those letters. Every word you wrote, I saw."

George read it once, then read it again. After he finished reading, the church was silent for a long time.

Mike was the first to speak: "He wrote a letter again."

Sam was the second: "He saw us."

Jenny was the third: "He said he saw us."

Chris was squatting in the corner, not saying a word. But he reached into his pocket and touched that dried mushroom. It was the first one Henry had given him, and he had kept it with him ever since.

Tony sat on a pew, that book spread open on his knees. He wasn't reading; he was looking at the wall. Those letters, one by one, were posted neatly. He watched for a long time, then spoke, his voice very soft, but everyone could hear him:

"This wall will become fuller and fuller."

George turned his head to look at him.

Tony continued: "Eric will write, Martha will write, Henry will write. Those whose names we don't know will write, too. They will send letters here and post them on the wall. Then others will come to read, read and then write, write and then post."

He paused, looking at everyone: "This wall will come to life."

The next morning, George was picking mushrooms on the farm. He picked them very slowly, one by one, as if selecting some treasure. Edna stood nearby, leaning on her cane, watching him pick.

"George," Edna said, "I want to go to the church and see that wall."

George stopped and looked at her. Then he set down the mushroom basket, helped her, and they slowly walked toward the church.

There was no one in the church. Sunlight shone in through the stained-glass windows, falling onto that wall. Edna stood in front of the wall, watching for a long time. She reached out and touched an envelope. It was written by Eric, the handwriting crooked. She touched another one next to it. It was written by Mark, the handwriting neat and tidy. She touched them one by one, as if touching a person.

"George," she said, "do you see?"

George stood beside her, watching her touch those letters.

"See what?" he asked.

Edna said: "Those words. They are glowing."

George was stunned for a moment. He leaned in to look; the words were crooked, some clear, some blurry. But as he watched, he felt they were indeed glowing. Not the light of a lamp, but some other kind of light. White and bright, like the light of mushrooms.

He reached out and touched the one written by Eric. "I see it," he said.

That afternoon, Mike was wiping glasses in the bar. He wiped very slowly, stroke by stroke, as if wiping away time. Sam sat nearby playing the guitar, playing that song, "I Heard."

"Mike," Sam said, "have you been to see that wall?"

Mike stopped and looked at him. "What wall?"

Sam said: "The one in the church. The one covered in letters."

Mike thought for a moment. He had been to the church, but he hadn't looked at that wall. Every day he was in the bar, wiping glasses, mixing drinks, and talking to customers. He rarely went to the church side.

"No," he said.

Sam put down the guitar. "Let's go, let's go take a look."

Mike followed Sam into the church. Sunlight shone in through the stained-glass windows, falling onto that wall. Mike stood in front of the wall, watching for a long time. Those letters, one by one, were all written by people he knew. George's, Edna's, Jenny's, Chris's. And Eric's—he didn't know him, but he had seen them many times.

He reached out and touched one. It was written by Eric, the handwriting crooked. He touched another one next to it. It was written by George, the handwriting steady. After touching it, he pulled his hand back.

"Well written," he said.

Sam stood beside him, also looking at the letters. "Don't you want to write one?"

Mike was stunned for a moment. "Write what?"

Sam said: "Write what you want to say. Post it on the wall."

Mike was silent for a while. He remembered his forty years of mixing drinks, from when no one drank, to when people started drinking. He remembered the first drink—no one drank it. The second, also no one drank it. The third, an old man took a sip and said, 'It's alright.' He had been mixing drinks for forty years. He picked up a pen and wrote on paper:

"My name is Mike. I'm a bartender. It's been forty years. The first drink, no one drank it. The second, also no one drank it. The third, an old man took a sip and said, 'It's alright.' So I kept mixing. Today, I want to mix a drink for that kid who wrote so many letters. His name is Eric. He grows mushrooms. I mix drinks. It's about the same."

He posted the letter on the wall. Along with the other letters, it was crooked, but written with great force.

Sam stood nearby, looking at that letter. "You wrote it."

Mike nodded. "I wrote it."

That evening, Jenny was organizing the letters in the church. She came every day, organizing every day. Putting up new ones, smoothing out the old ones. She organized very slowly, one by one, as if caressing a person.

She saw the one Mike had posted. The handwriting was crooked, much like Eric's. She watched for a long time, then smiled. She took a letter out of a box—the first one Eric had written. She posted it next to Mike's. The two letters, side by side, were like two people standing together.

She stood in front of the wall, looking at those letters. One by one, there were more and more. From this end of the wall, growing to the other end. From the bottom of the wall, growing to the top. Like mushrooms, patch by patch, white and fresh.

She reached out and touched the nearest one. It was written by Eric. She touched the one next to it. It was written by Mike. She touched them one by one, as if touching a living thing.

"This wall," she whispered, "will keep growing."

That night, Tony sat in the church, facing that wall. He had the book spread open on his knees, but he wasn't reading. He was looking at those letters, watching for a long time. The words were crooked, some clear, some blurry. But he felt that every word was speaking.

Eric said: I saw myself.

George said: I saw.

Edna said: I saw, too.

Mike said: I am mixing drinks.

Sam said: I am singing.

Jenny said: I am organizing.

Chris said: I am watering.

[part:gemini-3.0-flash]

He watched for a while, then stood up and walked to the wall. He reached out and touched the letter Eric had written. The paper was thin, the handwriting crooked. But he felt it was the heaviest writing he had ever seen.

He picked up a pen and wrote on the paper:

"My name is Tony. I'm a reader. I've been reading for a long time, and I've come to understand one thing. Things seen do not disappear. Things written down do not, either. This wall will always be here."

He stuck the letter on the wall. Along with the other letters, it was crooked, but written very slowly, stroke by stroke.

Late that night, Lin Feng squatted under the old locust tree, looking in the direction of the church. The church lights were still on, shining through the stained glass windows, falling on the ground in patches.

Margaret walked over carrying a plate of mushrooms and squatted beside him.

"Lin Feng, what are you looking at?"

Lin Feng said, "I'm looking at that wall."

Margaret followed his gaze. The church lights were on; she couldn't see the wall, but she knew it was there.

"I heard there are many letters posted on it," she said.

Lin Feng nodded.

Margaret asked, "Aren't you going to take a look?"

Lin Feng thought for a moment and said, "No need."

Margaret was stunned for a moment.

Lin Feng continued, "Those letters are written for people to see. They're not for me."

Margaret looked at him for a long time. Then she smiled. She stood up and walked toward the restaurant. After a few steps, she looked back: "I'm going to make the mushrooms. Call me if you're hungry."

Lin Feng nodded. He squatted there, looking toward the church. The lights were still on, and the wall was still there. He thought of those letters—Eric's, George's, Edna's, Mike's, Sam's, Jenny's, Chris's, and Tony's. He hadn't read them, but he knew they were there. White and bright, like the glow of mushrooms.

The corner of his mouth curled up slightly.

The next morning, Old Zhou set off again.

The bicycle creaked, the canvas bag on the back seat packed full. He rode slowly but steadily. The sun rose from the east, shining on him, casting a long shadow.

The first stop was Millfield. When he arrived, the sun had just come out. Eric was standing at the entrance of the town, waiting for him.

"Uncle Zhou," Eric said, "is there a letter for me?"

Old Zhou rummaged through his bag, found a letter, and handed it to him. Eric took it, opened it, and glanced at it. Then he smiled.

"Mike wrote it," he said. "He says he's been bartending. For forty years. He wants to mix a drink for me."

Old Zhou nodded. He turned to leave. Eric called out to him. "Uncle Zhou, wait a moment."

Old Zhou looked back. Eric pulled a letter from his pocket and handed it to him. On the envelope was written "Xinfeng Town, For the Wall."

Old Zhou took it and looked at the envelope. "For the Wall?"

Eric smiled. "To be posted on the wall. Anyone can read it."

Old Zhou put the letter into the canvas bag. "Alright."

Old Zhou's second stop was Greenfield.

When he arrived, the sun was already high. Martha was sitting at the church entrance, holding a guitar and playing. She played slowly and often made mistakes, but she kept playing.

Old Zhou stood behind her and waited for a while. After she finished a passage, he called out, "Martha."

Martha looked up, saw the letter in his hand, put down her guitar, and stood up.

Old Zhou handed her the letter. "From Xinfeng Town."

Martha took it, opened it, and glanced at it. Then she smiled.

"Mike wrote it," she said. "He says he's bartending. He wants to mix a drink for that child who wrote the letter."

She folded the letter and put it in her pocket. Then she pulled another letter from her pocket and handed it to Old Zhou.

"This one, send it to Xinfeng Town. Post it on the wall."

Old Zhou took it. On the envelope was written "Xinfeng Town, For the Wall." He put it in his canvas bag. "Alright."

Old Zhou's third stop was Xinfeng Town.

When he arrived, the sun was already leaning west. He parked his bike at the church door and pushed it open. There was no one in the church. Sunlight shone through the stained glass windows, falling on that wall. There were more letters on the wall than the last time he came. Mike's, Tony's, and those of people whose names he didn't know. They were densely packed, like a patch of white mushrooms.

He rummaged through his bag for those letters. Eric's, Martha's, and several others sent from elsewhere. He posted them on the wall one by one. He posted them slowly, looking at each one for a long time. After finishing, he stood in front of the wall, looking at the letters. He reached out and touched the one Eric wrote. The handwriting was crooked, but written with great effort.

He touched the one Martha wrote. The handwriting was crooked, but written slowly, stroke by stroke. He touched the one Mike wrote. The handwriting was crooked, but written steadily. After touching them, he withdrew his hand. It was time for him to go.

He turned to walk toward the door. Reaching the door, he stopped and looked back. The wall was full, like a patch of white mushrooms. He stood for a while, then pushed the door open and walked into the sunset.

That night, Old Zhou sat in the Post Office, with that letter spread out before him. On the envelope was written "Xinfeng Town, For the Wall." He stared at those words for a long time.

Xiao Zhao asked from nearby, "Uncle Zhou, what are you looking at?"

Old Zhou said, "I'm looking at a letter."

Xiao Zhao was stunned for a moment. "It hasn't even been opened yet, what are you looking at?"

Old Zhou didn't answer. He put the letter into the drawer, into 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 thought of those letters. Eric's, Martha's, George's, Mike's, Tony's. And those of people whose names he didn't know. One by one, coming from Millfield, from Greenfield, from Xinfeng Town. They were posted on the wall, seen by people, touched by people, remembered by people.

He touched his pocket. In that pocket was a letter. It was written to him by Eric. He had been carrying it with him, unopened. He didn't want to open it. He was afraid that if he opened it, it would be gone.

He stood at the door, looking at the road. At the end of that road, there were still letters waiting. He would have to ride again tomorrow.

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

The next day, Old Zhou set off again.

The bicycle creaked, the canvas bag on the back seat packed full. He rode slowly but steadily. The sun rose from the east, shining on him, casting a long shadow.

He rode through Millfield, giving the letter to Eric. He rode through Greenfield, giving the letter to Martha. He rode to Xinfeng Town, posting the letter on the wall.

After posting it, he stood in front of the wall, looking at those letters. One by one, more and more. Growing from one end of the wall to the other. Growing from the bottom of the wall to the top. Like mushrooms, patch after patch, pure white.

He reached out and touched the most recent one. It was written by Eric. He touched the one next to it. It was written by Martha. He touched them one by one, as if touching a living thing.

He touched one and stopped. On the envelope was written "Post Office, To Old Zhou." It was his own. He still hadn't opened it.

He stared at that letter for a long time. Then he opened it. Inside was only a single piece of paper, and on the paper was only one line:

"Uncle Zhou, we all saw the letters you delivered. —Eric"

Old Zhou stared at that line for a long time. He folded the letter and put it in his pocket. In that pocket, there was another unopened one. He touched them, and the corner of his mouth curled up slightly.

He turned, pushed the door open, and walked into the sunlight. The bicycle was still at the door, creaking. He got on and rode forward slowly. The road was winding, stretching into the distance. The wind blew, ruffling his hair.

He rode slowly but steadily.

[Chapter 82 End]