84: Chapter 84 Seeing

The letter had been lying in his pocket for seven days, but Uncle Zhou still hadn't opened it.

It wasn't that he didn't want to. It was fear. He feared that after opening it, he would find it wasn't what he had imagined. He feared that once opened, the letter would be gone.

He kept the letter in his inner pocket, right next to his keys. Every day while delivering mail, it was there, pressing against his chest. When he ate, it was there, pressing against his ribs. When he slept, it was there, pressing against his heart.

Xiao Zhao asked him, "Uncle Zhou, you still haven't opened that letter?"

Uncle Zhou said, "Not yet."

Xiao Zhao asked, "Why?"

Uncle Zhou thought for a moment and said, "It's not the right time yet."

Xiao Zhao didn't ask again. But he noticed that Uncle Zhou had changed—when riding his bike, he no longer kept his head down watching the road, but instead lifted his head to look at both sides. He had been riding past the trees on the roadside for forty years, but had never really looked at them. Now, he did. Some trees were thick, some thin, some straight, some crooked. There was one particularly thick tree with words carved into its trunk. He stopped and leaned in to look. The handwriting was crooked and scrawled deep: "Li Xiaojun was here." He didn't know who Li Xiaojun was, but he knew that someone had been here. Someone had left their name on this tree.

He touched the characters, as if touching someone's fingerprint.

He got on his bike and continued forward.

The first stop was still Millfield. When he arrived, the sun had just come out. Eric was standing at the entrance of the town waiting for him, clutching a mushroom in his hand—it was white and still covered in dew. Uncle Zhou fished a letter out of his bag and handed it over. Eric took it, opened it, glanced at it, and smiled.

"It's from Molly. She said she's helping out at the Coffee Shop, and that she has seen herself."

Uncle Zhou nodded. As he turned to leave, Eric called him back. "Uncle Zhou, wait a moment." He pulled a letter from his pocket and handed it over. The envelope was addressed to "Xinfeng Town, to be posted on the wall." Uncle Zhou took it and put it into his canvas bag. He glanced at Eric—his eyes were very bright, like a mushroom that had just been watered.

"Eric, have you seen yourself?"

Eric paused for a moment, then smiled. "I have."

Uncle Zhou nodded, got on his bike, and continued forward.

The second stop was Greenfield. The sun had already risen high. Martha was sitting at the church entrance playing the guitar. She played very slowly and often missed notes, but she kept playing. Uncle Zhou stood behind her and waited for a while; when she finished a segment, he called out, "Martha."

Martha looked up, saw the letter in his hand, put down the guitar, and stood up. Uncle Zhou handed her the letter. "It's from Xinfeng Town."

Martha opened it, glanced at it, and smiled. "It's from Molly. She said she's helping out at the Coffee Shop, and that she also wants to see herself." She folded the letter and put it in her pocket, then pulled out another letter and handed it over. "This one, please send it to Xinfeng Town, to be put on the wall."

Uncle Zhou took it and put it into his canvas bag. He looked at Martha—her eyes were also very bright, like the shimmering light on a guitar string.

"Martha, have you seen yourself?"

Martha paused for a moment, then smiled. "I have. Inside the guitar."

Uncle Zhou nodded, got on his bike, and continued forward.

The third stop was Xinfeng Town. The sun had already tilted to the west. He parked his bike at the church entrance and pushed the door open to enter. There was someone in the church—not here to look at the wall, but to post a letter. An old lady with a cane, her hair completely white, was standing in front of the wall, holding a letter and looking for a place to put it.

Uncle Zhou walked over. The old lady turned her head, and he recognized her—Edna.

"Edna, you wrote a letter?"

Edna smiled. "I did. My first time writing one."

She posted the letter on the wall, next to Eric's. Uncle Zhou glanced at it. The letter was short:

"My name is Edna. I am eighty-three years old. My husband has been gone for twenty years. I have been living alone. Today, I saw a wall. There are many letters on the wall. In those letters, there are many people. Some of them have seen themselves, and some are still looking. I am looking now, too. I have seen my husband. In those letters, in those words. He is still looking, too."

Uncle Zhou stared at the letter for a long time. Edna stood nearby, watching too.

"Edna, you have seen him?"

She nodded. "I have. He has always been there."

Uncle Zhou fished out the letters from his bag—Eric's, Martha's, and several others sent from other places. He posted them on the wall one by one, very slowly, taking a long time to look at each one. After posting them, he stood in front of the wall, looking at the letters. One by one, they grew more numerous. They grew from one end of the wall to the other, from the bottom of the wall to the top.

He reached out and touched the one written by Eric—the handwriting was crooked, but written with great effort. He touched the one written by Martha—the handwriting was crooked, but written very slowly. He touched the one written by Edna—the handwriting was crooked, but very steady. He felt the one in his own pocket, still unopened. He touched it, but didn't take it out. He feared that after opening it, it would be gone.

He turned and pushed the door open, walking into the sunset. The bicycle was still at the entrance, creaking. He got on it and rode slowly forward. The road was winding, stretching toward the distance. The wind blew over, messing up his hair. He rode very slowly, but very steadily.

Halfway there, he stopped, sat by the side of the road, and took that letter out of his pocket. On the envelope, it was written: "Post Office, to Uncle Zhou." The handwriting was crooked, like a child just learning to write. He recognized the handwriting—it was Eric's. He looked at it for a long time, then opened it.

Inside there was only a piece of paper, and on the paper only one line of text: "Uncle Zhou, we have all seen the letters you delivered. —Eric"

Uncle Zhou stared at that line of text for a long time. He remembered that he had been delivering mail for forty years, from his youth to his old age, from black hair to white. The people on the road had changed generation after generation, and the towns had changed one after another. No one had ever written him a letter. He had thought that no one saw him.

Now he knew. Someone had seen him. In those letters, in those words.

He folded the letter and put it into his pocket. In that pocket, there was another one he hadn't opened yet. He touched them, and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. He got on his bike and continued forward. The road was still the same road, winding and twisting. But he felt it was different. He could see everything on both sides of the road. Those trees, that grass, those tree trunks with names carved into them. They had always been there. He just hadn't seen them before.

The next day, Uncle Zhou set off 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, and his shadow was stretched very long.

The first stop was Millfield. The sun had just come out, and Eric was standing at the town entrance waiting for him. Uncle Zhou fished a letter out of his bag and handed it over. Eric opened it, glanced at it, and smiled. "It's from Edna; she said she saw her husband."

Uncle Zhou nodded. As he turned to leave, Eric called him back. "Uncle Zhou, wait a moment." He pulled a letter from his pocket and handed it over. The envelope was addressed to "Xinfeng Town, to be posted on the wall." Uncle Zhou took it and put it into his canvas bag.

"Uncle Zhou," Eric said, "have you seen yourself?"

Uncle Zhou paused for a moment. He thought for a while and said, "I have. In those letters."

Eric smiled. "That's good."

Uncle Zhou got on his bike and continued forward. The wind blew past his ears, and the trees on both sides of the road rustled. He remembered that letter, remembered those words— "We have all seen the letters you delivered." He had been riding for forty years, and for the first time, he felt that he was not walking this road alone. There were people on this road, people at the end of this road, and people in those letters. They were all watching him.

He rode to Greenfield and handed the letter to Martha. He rode to Xinfeng Town and posted the letter on the wall. He rode to even more distant places, handing letters to those he knew and those he didn't.

Every time he arrived at a place, someone would ask him, "Uncle Zhou, is there a letter for me?" He would fish it out of his bag and hand it to them. They would take it, open it, glance at it, and smile. That kind of smile was different from before; it wasn't a polite smile, but one that rippled out from their eyes. Seeing those smiles, he felt that this road was worth riding.

One day, Uncle Zhou was sorting mail at the Post Office. Xiao Zhao was helping nearby, holding a letter and looking at it for a long time.

"Uncle Zhou, who is this letter addressed to?"

Uncle Zhou took it. The envelope read "Xinfeng Town, to the wall." No name, just "the wall." He looked at it for a long time, then smiled.

"It's addressed to that wall."

Xiao Zhao paused for a moment. "Can a wall receive mail?"

Uncle Zhou nodded. "It can. That wall can receive anything."

He put the letter into the pile for Xinfeng Town, to be delivered tomorrow. He thought of that wall, those letters, those words. One by one, they grew more numerous. They grew from one end of the wall to the other, from the bottom of the wall to the top. Like mushrooms, patch after patch, pure white.

He touched the letter in his pocket. It was still there. He carried it with him every day, touching it every day. It was already wrinkled, the corners curled up, the handwriting a bit blurry. But he couldn't bear to throw it away. It was the first letter he had received in forty years, and the only one.

He kept it in his inner pocket, along with his keys. It was there when he delivered mail every day, it was there when he ate, and it was there when he slept.

Xiao Zhao asked him, "Uncle Zhou, you're still carrying that letter?"

Uncle Zhou nodded.

Xiao Zhao asked, "Aren't you going to write a reply?"

Uncle Zhou paused for a moment. He had never thought about writing a reply. He had been delivering mail for forty years, and it was always others writing and others replying. He had never written one himself. He thought for a moment and said, "I don't know how to write one."

Xiao Zhao smiled. "Just write what you want to say."

That evening, Uncle Zhou sat in the Post Office with a sheet of paper spread out in front of him. He held a pen, staring at the white paper for a long time. He remembered riding on this road for forty years, meeting many people, and delivering many letters. Those letters contained happiness, sadness, farewells, and reunions. He remembered every single one.

He wrote very slowly, thinking for a long time for every word: "My name is Uncle Zhou. Sixty-seven years old. I deliver mail. I have been delivering it for forty years. I used to think I was the only one on this road. Now I know, someone has seen. In those letters, in those words. Thank you for seeing me."

After finishing, he looked at it for a long time. Then he folded the letter and put it into an envelope. On the envelope, he wrote: "Millfield, to Eric." He stood up, walked to the door, and looked at the road outside. The road was winding, stretching toward the distance. Moonlight shone on the road, bright white, like a river. He stood for a while, then turned and walked back into the Post Office, placing the letter into the pile to be delivered tomorrow.

The next day, Uncle Zhou handed the letter to Eric.

Eric took it, opened it, and glanced at it. Then he smiled. That smile was different from any Uncle Zhou had seen before; it rippled out from his eyes. He folded the letter and put it in his pocket.

"Uncle Zhou, you wrote one."

Uncle Zhou nodded. "I did."

Eric looked at him. "You have seen yourself."

Uncle Zhou paused for a moment. He thought for a while and said, "I have. In those words."

Eric smiled. "That's good."

Uncle Zhou got on his bike 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. The sun rose from the east, shining on him, and his shadow was stretched very long. He rode through Millfield, through Greenfield, and to Xinfeng Town. He posted the letter on the wall. After posting it, he stood in front of the wall, looking at those letters.

One by one, they grew more numerous. Eric's, Martha's, George's, Edna's, Mike's, Sam's, Jenny's, Chris's, Tony's. And Tom's, Molly's. And those of people whose names he didn't know. And his own.

He reached out and touched the one he had written. The paper was thin, the handwriting crooked, like a child just learning to write. But he felt that it was the most beautiful writing he had ever seen. He stood in front of the wall, looking for a long time. Sunlight shone in through the stained-glass window, falling on those words. White and bright, like the light of a mushroom.

He said softly, "I see."

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

"Uncle Zhou."

He turned around. Edna, leaning on her cane, was standing behind him.

"I have seen the letter you wrote, too."

Uncle Zhou paused for a moment. "You saw it too?"

Edna nodded. She walked to the wall and pointed at the letter. "Here. I come to look every day. The one you wrote is in the middle. The handwriting is crooked, but it was written very earnestly."

Uncle Zhou looked where she pointed. The letter was still there, squeezed among the other letters. The paper was already a bit wrinkled, the corners curled up. But he felt it was glowing.

"You wrote that you have been delivering mail for forty years," Edna said, "and I have been waiting for twenty years. It's about the same."

She looked at Uncle Zhou and smiled. "I have seen all the letters you delivered. Eric's, Martha's, Tom's, Molly's. You brought them here."

Uncle Zhou didn't know what to say. He stood there, looking at the wall. Those letters, one by one, had all been delivered by his own hands. He rode from Millfield to Greenfield, from Greenfield to Xinfeng Town. He handed them to Eric, to Martha, to Tom, to Molly. Then they were posted here.

He had thought he was just delivering mail. Now he knew he had brought people too. The people who wrote the letters, the people who read the letters, the people who saw themselves in the letters. They were all here, on this wall, in these words.

"Edna, you waited for twenty years, did you find what you were waiting for?"

Edna thought for a moment and said, "I did. In those letters, in those words. He has always been here."

She pointed to her own letter on the wall. "You saw the one I wrote, too."

Uncle Zhou nodded. "I did."

Edna smiled. "That's good."

Uncle Zhou walked out of the church, got on his bike, and continued forward. But he knew that this road would not come to an end. Those letters, those words, those people, would keep going. From Millfield to Greenfield, from Greenfield to Xinfeng Town, from Xinfeng Town to even further places. One by one, they grew more numerous.

He rode very slowly, but very steadily. The sun shone on him, warm and cozy. He touched the letter in his pocket. It was still there. He smiled, and continued riding forward. The road was winding, stretching toward the distance.

In the distance, someone is watching too.

[Chapter 84 End]