83: Chapter 83 The Wall.

The wall in the Xinfeng Town church was getting fuller and fuller.

Letters grew from one end of the wall to the other, from the bottom of the wall to the top.

Some people used thumbtacks, some used glue, and others just tucked them into the crevices.

The paper also varied in color—some white, some yellow, some checkered, some crumpled.

From a distance, it looked like a pile of autumn leaves, layered one upon another.

No one managed this wall.

Jenny would occasionally come to tidy it up, pinning back the ones about to fall off and gently separating those that were overlapping.

But she didn't organize, categorize, or judge them.

She said, "Wherever a letter is placed, that is where it stays."

More and more people came to see the wall.

People from Millfield came, people from Greenfield came, and people from even further away came as well.

They stood in front of the wall, reading the letters one by one.

Some looked for a long time, while others took one glance and left.

Some cried after reading, some laughed, and some said nothing at all, just stood there for a while before leaving.

Every time Old Zhou delivered mail to Xinfeng Town, he would stand in front of the wall for a while.

He didn't read the letters—he already knew what was written in them.

He was watching the people who were reading the letters.

Watching their expressions, their eyes, and whether they cried or laughed after reading.

Once, he saw a young man standing in front of the wall for a long time.

The young man was wearing work clothes, with dirt still on his hands, looking as if he had just come from a farm.

He read one letter after another, and when he reached the last one, he stopped moving.

Old Zhou walked over and stood beside him.

That letter was written by Eric, and it was very short: "My name is Eric. I'm twenty-three. I didn't finish college. I don't know what I can do. The people in Millfield said, you can grow mushrooms. So I did. The mushrooms grew very well. Today, I saw myself. In the white light of the mushroom racks, I saw myself crouching there, holding a mushroom in my hands. That was me. I saw it."

The young man stared at the letter for a long time. Then he reached out and touched the words.

His fingers lingered on the paper for a moment before pulling back.

"Do you know him?" Old Zhou asked.

The young man shook his head. "No."

"Then why have you been looking for so long?"

The young man thought for a moment and said, "He saw himself. I want to see myself too."

Old Zhou later learned that the young man was named Tom, and he came from West Virginia.

He had heard there was a wall in Xinfeng Town, so he came to see it.

He spent the afternoon looking at it, and when he left, he posted a letter at the very bottom of the wall, with only one line: "My name is Tom. I'm twenty-five. I don't know what I can do. Today I saw a wall. Someone on the wall saw themselves. I want to try, too."

Old Zhou was stunned when he saw that letter, recalling the feeling of receiving his first letter—someone had seen him.

He pushed the letter in a bit, afraid it might fall.

After leaving Xinfeng Town, Tom went to Millfield.

He stood at the entrance of the town, looking at the road sign: Population 412, Home of Mushrooms.

He walked inside and saw people planting flowers by the roadside, people sunbathing at their doorways, and people repairing houses.

He walked to the farm entrance and saw a young man crouching in front of the racks, watering them.

A girl was crouching next to him, also watering.

Neither of them spoke, just crouching there, watering them one by one.

Tom stood at the entrance for a while and called out, "Eric?"

The young man stood up and turned around. He was stunned when he saw Tom. "Do you know me?"

"No. But I read the letter you wrote."

"Which one?"

"The one where you saw yourself."

Eric was silent for a moment, then smiled. "Where are you from?"

"West Virginia."

"Here to see the wall?"

Tom nodded.

Eric pointed to the mushrooms on the racks. "Those are a wall, too."

Tom didn't understand.

Eric picked a mushroom and handed it to him. "Take a look."

Tom took it.

The mushroom was pure white, still covered in dew. He looked at it for a long time but didn't see anything special.

Eric said, "It grows from the soil. It's growing when you can't see it, and when you do see it, it's already here."

Tom looked at the mushroom, then at Eric.

He suddenly remembered what was written in that letter— "In the white light of the mushroom racks, I saw myself crouching there."

He saw it now.

It wasn't the light of the mushrooms, but some other light.

White and bright, like stars.

He handed the mushroom back to Eric. "Thank you."

Eric said, "You're welcome. Everyone who grows mushrooms knows."

Tom stayed in Millfield for three days.

Every day he went to the farm, watching Eric grow mushrooms, Sarah watering, and Dave picking mushrooms.

On the third day, he went to find Dave. "Dave, can I grow mushrooms here?"

Dave looked at him. "Do you know how?" Tom shook his head.

"No. But I want to learn."

Dave smiled. "Then learn."

Tom settled down in Millfield, living next door to Henry.

Henry was still the first to arrive and the last to leave every day, crouching in front of the racks, looking at them one by one as if looking at his own children.

Tom crouched beside him and asked, "Henry, what are you looking at?"

Henry said, "Watching them grow."

Tom asked, "Can you see them?"

Henry thought for a moment. "I can see them. They grow every day. They grow even when you can't see them."

Tom stared at the mushrooms for a long time.

He couldn't see them growing, but he felt them moving.

On his seventh day in Millfield, Tom wrote a letter.

He sat at the farm entrance and wrote slowly: "My name is Tom. I'm twenty-five. I came from West Virginia. Before, I didn't know what I could do. Now I'm growing mushrooms. Today I saw a mushroom sprout from the soil. It was tiny, white, like a star. I saw it. When it was growing, I saw it."

After finishing, he went to find Eric. "Can this letter be posted on the wall?"

Eric took it, looked at it, and smiled.

"Yes."

He handed the letter to Old Zhou.

Old Zhou took the letter to Xinfeng Town and posted it on the wall, along with the other letters.

After that letter was posted, one more person came to see the wall.

It wasn't someone from elsewhere, but from Xinfeng Town itself.

Her name was Molly, she was twelve, and she had come from Tennessee with her mother.

Her mother opened a Coffee Shop in town, and she helped out in the shop every day after school.

One day she saw someone coming out of the church with red eyes and asked her mother what was wrong with that person.

Her mother said they had seen the wall.

Molly asked what wall, and her mother pointed to the church.

"That wall. The one covered in letters."

Molly went to the church after school.

She stood in front of the wall and read the letters one by one. She didn't recognize some of the words, and some were written too sloppily for her to understand.

But she understood one, written by Eric: "My name is Eric. I'm twenty-three. I didn't finish college. I don't know what I can do. The people in Millfield said, you can grow mushrooms. So I did. The mushrooms grew very well."

Molly stared at that letter for a long time. She thought of herself—twelve years old, not knowing what she could do.

Her father was gone, her mother ran the shop alone, and she helped carry plates, clear tables, and wipe cups every day after school.

She didn't know what she could do.

She reached out and touched the letter.

The paper was thin, the handwriting crooked, but she felt like someone was talking to her.

She ran home, found a piece of paper and a pen, and wrote a letter, writing slowly: "My name is Molly. I'm twelve. I don't know what I can do. Mom runs a Coffee Shop, and I help carry plates. Today I saw a letter. It was written by a person named Eric. He said he was growing mushrooms. He said he saw himself. I want to see myself too. But I don't know how to look."

After writing it, she ran to the church and posted the letter next to Eric's.

She stood back a bit and looked; the two letters were side by side, like two people standing together.

She smiled.

The next day, Molly went to the church again. She stood in front of the wall reading the letters, and someone was standing next to her, also reading.

It was an old lady, leaning on a cane, her hair completely white.

She read slowly, going through them one by one, as if reading something important.

Molly looked at her. "Grandma, what are you reading?"

The old lady turned her head and looked at her. "Reading letters."

"Do you know the people who wrote them?"

The old lady smiled. "I know some. Eric, I know him. George, I know him. Martha, I know her."

Molly was stunned. "You know all of them?"

"My name is Edna. I'm from Xinfeng Town."

Molly looked at Edna, then at the letters on the wall.

She didn't know those names, but she felt they were all there—in this wall, in those words.

She pointed to the one she had posted. "I wrote that one." Edna leaned in to look, reading slowly, line by line, as if reading a treasure.

After reading it, she turned her head and looked at Molly. "You wrote this?"

Molly nodded.

Edna smiled. "You saw yourself."

Molly was stunned. "No. I didn't see."

Edna pointed at the letter. "You wrote it. Writing it out means you saw it."

Molly stared at the words for a long time.

What she had written— "My name is Molly. I'm twelve. I don't know what I can do."

She saw it. That was herself, in those crooked words.

She smiled. That smile was different from usual; it wasn't a polite smile, but one that welled up from her eyes.

Molly started writing letters every day. Not to anyone in particular, just writing. After writing, she would post them on the wall.

She wrote about who came to the shop today, what coffee they ordered, what they said.

She wrote about her mom smiling today, how many plates she carried, and how many cups she wiped.

She wrote very slowly, thinking about every single word for a long time, but she wrote every day.

The letters on the wall grew more and more numerous. Eric's, Martha's, George's, Mike's, Sam's, Jenny's, Chris's, Tony's. And Tom's, Molly's. And those of people whose names she didn't know.

One by one, they grew from one end of the wall to the other, from the bottom of the wall to the top.

One day Molly went to the church and saw a young man crouching in front of the wall.

He crouched there for a long time without moving, as if looking at something.

Molly walked over and stood beside him. "What are you looking at?"

The young man looked up. "Reading letters." "Do you know the people who wrote them?"

The young man shook his head. "No. But I see them." Molly didn't understand.

The young man pointed to Eric's letter on the wall. "This person, he saw himself."

He pointed to Martha's letter. "This person, she is learning guitar."

He pointed to George's letter. "This person, he has grown mushrooms his whole life."

He turned his head and looked at Molly. "I don't know them. But I see them."

Molly stared at his eyes. His eyes were very bright, as if he had seen something.

"What's your name?"

"Mark."

Molly was stunned. "You are Mark? The one who writes data analysis?"

Mark smiled. "You see me, too."

Molly nodded. She pointed to Mark's letter on the wall. "I've read that one many times."

Mark looked in the direction of her finger.

That letter was written when he first came to Xinfeng Town, very short: "My name is Mark. I came from New York. Before, I looked at data. Now, I look at people." He looked at it for a long time, then smiled.

"It's not well written." Molly shook her head. "It is. 'Better than anyone else'."

That night, Mark sat 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.

Lin Feng was crouching nearby, chewing on a straw.

"Lin Feng," Mark said, "That wall will keep growing."

Lin Feng didn't speak.

Mark continued: "Eric will write, Martha will write, Tom will write, Molly will write. Those whose names we don't know will also write. They will send letters here and post them on the wall. Then others will come to see them, read them and then write, and after writing, post them."

He paused and looked at Lin Feng. "This wall will live for a very long time."

Lin Feng turned to look at him. Then he smiled, a smile that was different from usual, one that welled up from his eyes.

"Then let it live forever."

The next morning, Molly went to the church again. She stood in front of the wall looking at the letters, one by one, more and more. She remembered what Mark said— "I don't know them. But I see them."

She reached out and touched the one Eric wrote. The paper was thin, the handwriting crooked.

She touched the one Martha wrote. The handwriting was crooked, but written very slowly.

She touched the one George wrote. The handwriting was steady, stroke by stroke.

She touched them one by one, as if touching a person.

She stopped when she touched the one she had written. The handwriting was crooked, like a child who had just learned to write.

But she felt it was the most beautiful writing she had ever seen.

She stood in front of the wall looking at the letters. Sunlight shone in through the stained glass windows, falling on the words.

White and bright, like the light of mushrooms.

She looked for a long time, then smiled.

She turned and ran home, found a piece of paper and a pen.

She wrote another letter, writing very slowly, thinking about every single word for a long time:

"My name is Molly. I'm twelve. I help carry plates at the Coffee Shop. Today I saw a wall. There are many letters on the wall. In those letters, there are many people. Some grow mushrooms, some play guitar, some mix drinks, some write letters. I don't know them. But I see them. They are also seeing themselves. I want to see myself too. I wrote. I saw myself. In those crooked words."

After writing, she ran to the church and posted the letter on the wall, next to Eric's, next to Martha's, next to George's.

She stood back a bit and looked. The wall was full, like a patch of white mushrooms. She smiled.

She stood in front of the wall looking at the letters. The sunlight on her face felt warm. She reached out and touched the one she wrote. The paper was thin, the handwriting crooked, but she felt it was the heaviest writing she had ever seen.

She said softly, "I saw."

The wind blew, and the letters on the wall rustled. As if in answer.

[Chapter 83 End]