88: Chapter 88 Echoes (Part 3)

After Lin Xiaoyu's letter arrived from Africa, Uncle Zhou noticed something strange. The number of people coming to Xinfeng Town to see the wall had increased. They weren't the familiar faces from Millfield or Greenfield, but strangers. They drove cars, carried backpacks, stood at the church entrance, pushed the door open, walked in, and stood in front of the wall. They didn't read the letters; they just stood there.

When Uncle Zhou delivered letters, he always saw a few new faces in the church. There was a young man with a large camera who stood in front of the wall for an entire afternoon. He didn't take photos; he just stood there. In the evening, he walked up to the wall, reached out, and touched the letter at the very top that had come from Africa. After touching it, he turned and left without saying a word. He came back the next day, stood there again, and stayed for the whole afternoon. The third day was the same. On the fourth day, he walked to the wall, took a letter from his pocket, and posted it on the wall. The letter was short, with only a few lines:

"My name is Li Ming. I am twenty-seven years old. I came from California. I stood here for three days, not knowing what to look at. On the fourth day, I touched a letter. It came from Africa. There was a mushroom drawn on the paper. I don't know who drew it, but I feel like that person is watching me. I wrote one too. I'm posting it on the wall. Let you watch me too."

When Uncle Zhou saw that letter, he was stunned for a moment. He recognized the handwriting; it wasn't Eric's, it wasn't Martha's, and it didn't belong to anyone he knew. It was a stranger's—scrawled and crooked, but written with great sincerity. He stood there for a while, then turned, pushed the door open, and stepped into the sunlight.

His bicycle was creaking at the door. He got on and rode slowly forward. The road wound off into the distance, and the wind blew through his hair, messing it up. He rode slowly, but steadily. He thought about what the young man had said—"That person is watching me." He touched the letter in his pocket; it was still there. He was being watched too, within those letters, within those words. He smiled and continued riding forward.

The day after that letter was posted on the wall, a woman came to the church. She was in her forties, with messy hair and red, puffy eyes, as if she had been crying. She stood in front of the wall without looking at the letters. Instead, she crouched down at the base of the wall, hugged her knees, and buried her head in her arms.

Jenny walked over and crouched beside her. Neither of them said anything. After a long while, the woman lifted her head and looked at Jenny. "My daughter left. Three years ago. I never knew what to do. Today, someone told me there was a wall here. There are many letters on the wall. In those letters, there are people who are also waiting. I don't know if it's true. But I came."

She took a letter from her pocket and posted it on the wall, right next to Li Ming's letter. The letter was short, with only a few lines:

"My name is Wang Fang. I am forty-three years old. My daughter has been gone for three years. I have been waiting for her to come back. Today, I saw a wall. There are many letters on the wall. In those letters, there are many people. Some are waiting, some are writing, some are watching. I am waiting too. I've been waiting for three years. I am still waiting. Thank you for letting me wait."

Jenny stared at the letter for a long time. She thought about the letters she had organized—the ones from Millfield, from Greenfield, from Mexico, from Africa. Each one was waiting—waiting for someone to read, waiting for someone to reply, waiting for someone to remember. She reached out and touched the one Wang Fang had written. The paper was thin, and the handwriting was crooked. But she felt that the letter was very heavy.

She stood up and walked back to the box. There was still one letter in the box, written by Molly, that had never been sent. She took it out, walked to the wall, and posted it next to Wang Fang's. The letter was short, with only a few lines:

"My name is Molly. I am twelve years old. I help serve dishes at the Coffee Shop. My dad left too. He's been gone for a long time. I am waiting too. Waiting for him to come back and see me. Auntie Wang Fang, I see you. In your letter, in those words. I am waiting too. Let's wait together."

When Wang Fang saw that letter, she cried. She crouched at the base of the wall, hugging her knees, crying softly. Jenny crouched beside her, saying nothing. Sunlight shone through the stained-glass windows, falling on them, warm and gentle.

The news reached Millfield. Eric was watering the plants on the farm when Sarah ran over to find him. "Eric! Another person came to that wall in Xinfeng Town. A woman whose daughter has been gone for three years. She wrote a letter and posted it on the wall. Molly wrote one too, and posted it next to hers." Eric put down the hose and crouched in front of the shelves. He looked at the mushrooms, white and fresh, patch after patch. He remembered the first letter he had written—"My name is Eric. I am twenty-three years old. I haven't graduated from college. I don't know what I can do." Back then, he was also waiting, waiting for someone to see him. Now, someone was waiting for a daughter to return, someone was waiting for a father to return. They were all waiting, within this wall, within those words.

He stood up and went to find Dave. "Dave, I want to write a letter. To send to Xinfeng Town. To post on the wall." Dave looked at him. "Writing another one?" Eric nodded. He sat at the entrance of the farm and wrote slowly:

"My name is Eric. I am twenty-three years old. I am growing mushrooms. Today I heard the news. A woman came to that wall in Xinfeng Town. Her daughter has been gone for three years. She is waiting. Molly is waiting too. Waiting for her dad to come back. I am waiting too. Waiting for the mushrooms to grow. Waiting for the letter to arrive. Waiting for someone to see. I've been waiting for a long time. But I know, if you keep waiting, you will see."

After he finished writing, 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. "Alright."

Uncle Zhou delivered the letter to Xinfeng Town and posted it on the wall. It was placed next to Wang Fang's letter, next to Molly's letter. Three letters, side by side. One from Millfield, one from Xinfeng Town, and one from the Coffee Shop. He stood back a little to look; the wall had become thicker. Sunlight shone through the stained-glass windows, falling on those letters, white and bright.

He thought about how he had been waiting for forty years. Waiting for letters to arrive, waiting for letters to go, waiting for someone to see. Now he knew, if you keep waiting, you will see. He smiled, turned, pushed the door open, and stepped into the sunlight. His bicycle was still creaking at the door; he got on and rode slowly forward. The road wound off into the distance, and the wind blew through his hair, messing it up. He rode slowly, but steadily.

There were more and more letters on that wall. Not just from Millfield and Greenfield, but from California, from places unknown. Some wrote about how long they had been waiting, some wrote about what they had seen, some wrote about how they were still waiting. Jenny came every day to post the letters on the wall. The letters in the box were becoming fewer, while the letters on the wall were becoming thicker. She stood in front of the wall, looking at those letters, and felt as if they were breathing. Not literally breathing, but it felt like they were breathing. Just like those mushrooms—when you watch them, they don't move, but when you don't watch them, they grow.

One day, an old man came to the church. He was over seventy, his hair was completely white, and he was leaning on a cane. He stood in front of the wall for a long time, then reached out and touched the letter at the very top that had come from Africa. After touching it, he stood there, motionless.

Jenny walked over and stood beside him. "What are you looking for?"

The old man didn't turn his head. "Looking for someone."

Jenny asked, "Who?"

The old man said, "My wife. She's been gone for twenty years."

Jenny was stunned for a moment. The old man continued to touch the wall, from one end to the other, from the bottom to the top. When he reached the middle, he stopped, his hand pressing onto a letter, motionless.

"Found it."

Jenny leaned over to look. It was the letter written by Edna. The letter was short, with only a few lines:

"My name is Edna. I am eighty-three years old. My old man 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 have seen themselves, some are still looking. I am looking too. I saw my old man. In those letters, in those words. He is looking too."

The old man stared at the letter for a long time. "She wrote this?"

Jenny nodded. "Edna wrote it. She comes every day. She sits next to the 'Ear'. Sometimes she talks, sometimes she doesn't."

The old man's eyes grew red. "Where is she?"

Jenny pointed toward the church entrance. Edna was walking in, leaning on her cane, moving slowly but steadily. The old man turned around and looked at her. The two of them stared at each other for a long time.

"You..." the old man began, his voice trembling, "do you still recognize me?"

Edna stared at him for a long time. Then she smiled. "I do. You've aged."

The old man smiled too. "You've aged too."

The two of them stood in front of the wall, in front of those letters. Sunlight shone through the stained-glass windows, falling on them, white and bright. Jenny stood to the side, watching them, saying nothing.

After a long while, the old man spoke: "I've been gone for twenty years. I went to many places. I'm sorry."

Edna shook her head. "No need to say sorry. You've come back."

The old man looked at her. "Did you wait for me?"

Edna thought for a moment and said, "I did. In those letters, in those words. Did you see it too?"

The old man nodded. "I saw it. In that letter from Africa. That mushroom, did you draw it?"

Edna smiled. "I didn't draw it. A child drew it. From Millfield. His name is Eric. He is waiting too. If you keep waiting, you will see."

That evening, Edna and the old man sat under the old locust tree. Lin Feng was crouching nearby, chewing on a straw, while Margaret walked over with a plate of mushrooms and crouched beside him. The four of them didn't say a word.

After a long while, the old man spoke: "Lin Feng, do you still remember me?"

Lin Feng turned his head to look at him. "I do."

The old man was stunned for a moment. "You didn't even look at me."

Lin Feng said, "No need to look. I remember."

The old man was silent for a long time. He remembered that twenty years ago, when he left, Lin Feng was crouching right here, chewing on a straw, looking at that wall. Back then, the wall was still empty; now, it was full.

"Will this wall," he said, "be here forever?"

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 is an echo. When someone reads it, they will write, and when they write, someone else will read. The wall may be full, but the echo remains. People may leave, but they will also return."

The old man looked at him for a long time, then smiled. "You haven't changed."

Lin Feng said, "You're the same."

The next morning, Uncle Zhou came to deliver letters. He parked his bike at the church entrance and pushed the door open to go in; there was one more letter on the wall. He leaned in to look—it was written by a person named Wang Fang, next to it was one by Molly, and next to that was one by Eric. He looked for a long time, then reached out and touched them.

He turned, pushed the door open, and stepped into the sunlight. His bicycle was still creaking at the door; he got on and rode slowly forward. The road wound off into the distance, and the wind blew through his hair, messing it up. He rode slowly, but steadily.

He rode through Millfield and handed the letter to Eric. Eric took it, opened it, glanced at it, and smiled. "Edna's old man is back. He's been gone for twenty years, and he's back."

Uncle Zhou nodded. He got on his bike and continued forward. He rode through Greenfield and handed a letter to Martha. He rode to Xinfeng Town and posted the letter on the wall. He rode to even further places, handing letters to people he knew and to 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 dig them out of his bag and hand them over. They would take them, open them, glance at them, and smile. It was the kind of smile that rippled out from their eyes. Seeing those smiles, he felt that this road was worth riding.

He rode to the church entrance, stopped, pushed the door open, and stood in front of the wall. There were a few more letters on the wall. He looked at them, then turned, pushed the door open, and stepped into the sunset.

The bicycle creaked and creaked, riding further and further along the winding road. But he knew he wasn't walking this path alone. There were people in those letters, people 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 slowly, but steadily.

[ Chapter 88: End ]