86: Chapter 86 Echoes (Part 1)
The wall at the Xinfeng Town church was so full it couldn't hold another letter.
It wasn't the kind of full where you could squeeze one more in; it was covered from floor to ceiling, from left to right, every inch hidden by letter paper.
In some places, it was layered three sheets deep, thick as an open book, so dense you couldn't pry a finger in.
Jenny stood before the wall, clutching a few newly arrived letters in her hand.
She had tried squeezing the old letters to the side, but they wouldn't budge.
She tried pressing the layered ones tighter, but they wouldn't move.
She stood there for a long time, finally placing the letters into a wooden crate at her feet.
Of the three crates, two were already full.
The crates sat next to the "Ear" sculpture, alongside the old letters.
She crouched down, opened the crate lid, and dropped the letters inside.
The paper landed at the bottom with a soft sound, like a leaf falling to the ground.
When the news reached Millfield, Eric was watering his plants.
Sarah ran in, breathless, shouting: "Eric! That wall in Xinfeng Town, it's full!"
The hose in Eric's hand tilted, spilling water onto the path.
He froze for a moment, then set the hose down and crouched in front of the shelves.
The mushrooms were still white and fresh, just as they had been when he wrote his first letter.
Back then, the wall had been quite empty, with only a few letters.
Now, it was full.
He stood up to find Dave.
"Dave, I want to go to Xinfeng Town."
Dave was picking mushrooms and didn't even look up.
"To see the wall?"
"To take a look."
On Friday afternoon, Eric stood at the church entrance and pushed the door open.
Sunlight streamed in through the stained-glass windows, falling onto that wall.
He stood before it, reading letter by letter.
Not with his eyes, but with his fingertips.
He felt his own letter at the very bottom; the paper was brittle, the edges crumbling at the slightest touch.
He felt Martha's letter nearby, the handwriting slow and deliberate.
He felt Tom's letter on the other side, written with such force the paper was punctured.
He felt Molly's letter high up, the handwriting shaky, like a child just learning to walk.
He felt Edna's letter in the middle, with several scratches where she had corrected mistakes.
He felt Mike's letter, the handwriting large, as if shouting.
He felt Sam's letter, the handwriting light, like someone humming a tune.
He felt Chris's letter, the words crowded together as if afraid they wouldn't fit.
He felt Tony's letter, written stroke by stroke like a calligraphy practice sheet.
He felt Uncle Zhou's letter at the very top, the handwriting crooked but steady.
He finished feeling the last one and held his hand in mid-air.
Those letters, those words, those people.
He had never met them, but he knew them.
Within those words, within those crooked strokes.
He whispered: "I see you."
A breeze blew, and the letters on the wall rustled.
As if in answer.
That night, Eric sat under the old locust tree.
Lin Feng crouched nearby, chewing on a straw; neither of them spoke.
After a long while, Eric broke the silence: "Lin Feng, the wall is full. Will people still write letters?"
Lin Feng chewed his mushroom, replying slowly: "They will."
"How do you know?"
Lin Feng pointed toward the church.
"That wall isn't just letters; it's an echo. When a letter is sent and someone reads it, there's an echo. Someone reads it, they write back, and then someone else reads that. The wall is full, but the echo remains."
Eric paused, looking toward the church.
The lights were still on, the wall was still there, the letters were still there, and the people were still there.
"The echo won't disappear," he said.
The corners of Lin Feng's mouth curled up.
After returning to Millfield, Eric wrote another letter.
Not to anyone in particular, but to Xinfeng Town.
He sat at the farm entrance, writing slowly:
"My name is Eric. I am twenty-three. I grow mushrooms. Today I went to Xinfeng Town to see the wall. The wall is full, from floor to ceiling. I saw my letter at the very bottom. I saw many people's letters. Some of them grow mushrooms, some play guitar, some tend bar, some write letters. I don't know them, but I saw them. The wall is full, but the echo remains. I heard it. In those letters, in those words. Thank you all for writing, thank you all for reading."
After finishing, he handed the letter to Uncle Zhou.
Uncle Zhou took it, glanced at it, and smiled.
"Writing again?"
Eric nodded.
Uncle Zhou put the letter into his canvas bag.
"Good."
When Uncle Zhou delivered the letter to Xinfeng Town, Jenny was organizing the crates.
She saw the letter, paused, and then smiled.
She took the letter to the wall; it was full, with no gaps left.
She stood there looking at the wall, then took a thumbtack from her pocket and pinned the letter at the very top.
She pinned it over an old letter.
Two letters layered together.
She stepped back to look; the wall was even thicker.
Sunlight streamed in through the stained-glass windows, falling onto the letters, white and bright, like the glow of mushrooms.
She smiled.
She turned and walked to the crates, which were also filling up.
She picked one up to look; it was written by Molly.
She picked up another; it was written by Tom.
She picked up another; it was written by Mark.
She read through them one by one, as if reading a book.
"It's still growing," she whispered.
That night, Molly was helping out at the Coffee Shop.
After the customers left, she cleared the tables, and when the tables were cleared, she wiped the cups.
Once the cups were wiped, she stood at the entrance, looking across the street.
The church lights were still on, and the wall was still there.
She remembered the first letter she wrote; back then, the wall had been quite empty, but now it was full.
She ran home, found a piece of paper and a pen, and wrote a letter.
She wrote slowly, thinking for a long time about every word:
"My name is Molly. I am twelve. I help out at the Coffee Shop serving plates. Today I heard that the wall in Xinfeng Town is full. My letter is on it too, at the very top. I saw it. The wall is full, but people are still writing letters, still reading, and still listening. I heard it too. In those letters, in those words. Thank you all for letting me hear it."
After writing it, she ran to the church and stuck the letter on the wall.
She placed it next to Eric's.
Two letters layered together.
She stepped back to look; the wall was even thicker.
She smiled.
She stood before the wall, sunlight streaming in through the stained-glass windows, falling onto the words, white and bright.
She whispered: "I heard it."
A breeze blew, and the letters on the wall rustled.
As if in answer.
Three days after that letter was posted on the wall, a woman arrived.
She was in her thirties, carrying a large bag, looking travel-worn.
She stood before the wall, not looking at the letters, but reaching out to touch them one by one.
She touched them slowly, as if caressing someone's face.
Jenny walked over and stood beside her.
"What are you looking for?"
The woman didn't turn her head.
"Looking for a letter."
"Who wrote it?"
"I did. Ten years ago."
Jenny paused.
The woman continued touching the letters, feeling from one side of the wall to the other, from the bottom to the top.
When she reached the middle, she stopped, her hand resting on a letter.
"Found it."
Jenny leaned in to look.
The letter was very old; the paper had yellowed, and the edges were curled.
The handwriting was crooked, but written with force:
"My name is Lin Xiaoyu. I am twenty-two. I don't know what I can do. 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 too. I saw myself. In those words. I am leaving. Going to a very far place. But I will come back. To see this wall. To see you all."
Jenny stared at the letter for a long time.
"You wrote this?"
Lin Xiaoyu nodded.
"Ten years ago. Back then, this wall had just started, with only a few letters. Eric's, George's, Edna's. I stuck mine up and left. I've been gone for ten years. I've been to many places. Mexico, Africa, India. I grew mushrooms, taught people to play guitar, helped people write letters."
She smiled.
"In those places, I saw walls too. Not this kind of wall, but other walls. But it was the same. People writing on them, people reading, people listening."
She reached out and touched the letter she had written; the paper was thin, the edges curled, and the handwriting a bit blurry.
But she smiled.
"It's still here."
"You came back just to see this letter?"
Lin Xiaoyu nodded.
"To see if it was still here. To see if you all were still here."
She stood before the wall for a long time.
Sunlight streamed in through the stained-glass windows, falling onto the letters, falling onto her face.
White and bright.
She whispered: "Here. You're all still here."
That night, Lin Xiaoyu sat under the old locust tree.
Lin Feng crouched nearby, chewing on a straw.
After a long while, Lin Xiaoyu spoke: "Lin Feng, do you remember me?"
Lin Feng turned to look at her.
"I remember."
Lin Xiaoyu smiled.
"You didn't even look at me."
"I don't need to look. I remember."
Lin Xiaoyu paused.
She remembered ten years ago, standing before the wall writing that letter, while Lin Feng crouched right here, chewing a straw, watching the wall.
Back then the wall was quite empty; now it was full.
"Will this wall always be here?"
Lin Feng thought for a moment.
"It will."
"How do you know?"
Lin Feng pointed toward the church.
"That wall isn't just letters; it's an echo. When a letter is sent and someone reads it, there's an echo. Someone reads it, they write back, and then someone else reads that. The wall is full, but the echo remains. People leave, but they will come back."
Lin Xiaoyu looked at him for a long time, then smiled.
"You haven't changed."
"Neither have you."
Lin Xiaoyu stood up and walked to the church entrance, pushing the door open.
The wall was still there, the letters were still there.
She walked to the middle and found the letter she had written; the paper was still thin, the edges still curled, the handwriting still blurry.
She smiled.
She reached out to touch it, then took a letter from her pocket and stuck it beside the old one.
The letter was very short, only a few lines:
"My name is Lin Xiaoyu. I am thirty-two. I am back. I've been gone for ten years, traveled to many places. In those places, I also saw walls. People writing on them, people reading, people listening. Now I am standing here again. This wall is still here. The letters are still here. You are still here. I am still here too."
After sticking it up, she stepped back to look.
Two letters side-by-side, one old, one new.
The her from ten years ago, the her from ten years later.
She smiled.
She turned, pushed the door open, and walked into the moonlight.
Lin Feng was still crouching under the old locust tree.
"Left?" he asked.
Lin Xiaoyu nodded.
"Left."
"Will you come back?"
She thought for a moment.
"I will. To see the wall."
She walked into the night, getting further and further away.
The moonlight shone on her, white and bright, like a river.
Lin Feng watched for a long time, then lowered his head and continued eating his mushroom.
Margaret came over with a plate of mushrooms and crouched beside him.
"That person, do you know her?"
"A long time ago."
"What did she come for?"
"To see the wall."
Margaret looked toward the church, the lights still on.
"What's so good about looking at a wall?"
Lin Feng thought for a moment.
"To see oneself."
The next morning, Uncle Zhou came to deliver letters.
He parked his bike at the church entrance and pushed the door open; there was one more letter on the wall.
He leaned in to look; it was written by someone named Lin Xiaoyu.
The handwriting was crooked but steady.
He looked for a long time, then reached out and touched it.
The paper was new, the edges not yet curled.
He pressed it flat, tucking it in with the other letters.
He turned and pushed the door open, walking into the sunlight.
His bicycle was still creaking at the entrance; he got on and started riding slowly forward.
The road wound off into the distance, and the wind blew, ruffling his hair.
He rode very slowly, but steadily.
He rode through Millfield and handed the letter to Eric.
Eric took it, opened it, glanced at it, and smiled.
"Lin Xiaoyu wrote this. She said she's back. Gone for ten years, and now she's back."
Uncle Zhou asked: "Who is Lin Xiaoyu?"
Eric thought for a moment.
"Someone who writes letters. Wrote one ten years ago, and wrote another one now."
He handed the letter to Uncle Zhou.
Uncle Zhou took it and read it; the letter was very short:
"My name is Lin Xiaoyu. I am thirty-two. I am back. I've been gone for ten years, traveled to many places. In those places, I also saw walls. People writing on them, people reading, people listening. Now I am standing here again. This wall is still here. The letters are still here. You are still here. I am still here too."
Uncle Zhou stared at the line "I am still here too" for a long time.
He thought about the letter he had written and stuck on the wall, wondering if it was still there.
But he knew it was there, beneath those other letters, within those words.
He returned the letter to Eric and got back on his bike to continue forward.
He rode through Greenfield and handed the letter to Martha.
He rode to Xinfeng Town and stuck the letter on the wall.
He rode even further, handing letters to those he knew and those he didn't.
Everywhere he went, someone would ask him: "Uncle Zhou, is there a letter for me?"
He would dig it out of his bag and hand it to them.
They would take it, open it, glance at it, and smile.
It was the kind of smile that rippled out from their eyes.
Seeing those smiles, he felt this road was worth riding.
He rode to the church entrance, stopped, pushed the door open, and stood before the wall.
There were a few more letters on the wall.
He looked at them, then turned and pushed the door open, walking into the sunset.
The bicycle creaked and creaked, moving further and further along the winding road.
But he knew he wasn't traveling this road alone.
Someone was in those letters, someone was in those words.
They were all watching him.
He touched the letter in his pocket; it was still there.
He smiled, and continued riding forward.
The road wound off into the distance.
In the distance, there were also people writing letters, people reading, and people waiting.
He rode very slowly, but steadily.
[Chapter 86 Finished]