89: Chapter 89 Echoes • The Returning Traveler

The news of Edna's old man returning drifted like wind over wheat fields, from Xinfeng Town to Millfield, from Greenfield, and from those places that couldn't be named.

Nobody went out of their way to spread it; it was carried by letter after letter.

Every time Uncle Zhou opened his canvas bag, he could feel a few letters written about this.

Some were long, some short; some had neat handwriting, others were crooked.

He delivered them to where they belonged, and people would take them, open them, take a look, and smile.

That smile welled up from their eyes. The letters on that wall gained another layer.

When the news reached Millfield, Eric was picking mushrooms. Sarah ran in, breathless, shouting: "Eric! Edna's old man is back! After twenty years, he's back!"

The mushroom in Eric's hand fell to the ground. He froze for a long time, then squatted down to pick up the mushroom and put it in the basket.

He remembered the first letter he wrote; back then, he didn't know what he could do.

Later, he saw himself in the white light of the mushroom racks. Now, someone had waited twenty years and finally reached the end of that wait.

He stood up to find Dave. "Dave, I want to write a letter. To send to Edna."

Dave looked at him. "Write what?"

Eric thought for a moment. "Write that I saw her."

He sat at the farm entrance and wrote slowly:

"Edna, hello. My name is Eric. I grow mushrooms in Millfield. I heard. You waited twenty years, and you reached the end of it. I saw the letter you wrote. In the one you wrote, in the one your old man wrote. Thank you both for letting me see. I am also waiting. Waiting for the mushrooms to grow, waiting for letters to arrive, waiting for someone to see. I've waited a long time. But I know that if you keep waiting, you will eventually see."

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 in his canvas bag. "Good."

After that letter was sent, Edna came to the church every day, sitting next to the "Ear" sculpture. Her old man sat beside her; sometimes they talked, sometimes they didn't. Sunlight shone through the stained-glass windows, falling on them, white and bright.

One day when Uncle Zhou came to deliver mail, as he pushed the door open, Edna was talking to the "Ear". Her voice was very soft; Uncle Zhou couldn't hear clearly.

He stood at the door and waited for a while.

Edna finished, turned her head, saw him, and smiled.

"Is it from Eric again?" Uncle Zhou nodded and handed her the letter.

Edna took it, opened it, and read it very slowly. After finishing, she stuck the letter on the wall and stood there looking at it for a long time.

Her old man asked her what it said, and she said a kid in Millfield was growing mushrooms and said he saw her.

The old man was stunned for a moment. "He hasn't seen you?"

Edna smiled. "No need to see. In those letters, in those words, one can see."

There was one more letter on the wall, one from California. The person who wrote it was a young man named Li Ming. Uncle Zhou recognized the name—he had stood in front of the wall for three days, wrote a letter, and then left.

When Uncle Zhou delivered the letter to the church, a young man was squatting inside, carrying a large camera.

Uncle Zhou walked over and stood beside him. "Are you Li Ming?" The young man stood up and nodded.

Uncle Zhou handed him the letter. "Yours."

Li Ming opened it, looked at it, and smiled.

He stuck the letter on the wall, right next to the one he had written himself.

He turned around and looked at Uncle Zhou. "Uncle Zhou, how many years have you been delivering mail?"

Uncle Zhou thought for a moment. "Forty years."

Li Ming was stunned. "Riding every day?"

Uncle Zhou nodded.

"Aren't you tired?"

Uncle Zhou thought about it and said: "Tired. But someone is waiting."

Li Ming stayed in the church for a whole day. He didn't read the letters; he traced them one by one with his fingers.

He traced Eric's, Martha's, Tom's, Molly's, Edna's, Mike's, Sam's, Jenny's, Chris's, Tony's.

He continued tracing, touching Uncle Zhou's, Wang Fang's, Lin Xiaoyu's.

Then his own, an old one, a new one. After touching the last one, his hand stopped in mid-air.

He remembered the first time he came, standing for three days, not knowing what to look at. On the fourth day, he wrote a letter, stuck it up, and left.

He went to many places, saw many walls.

But no wall was as thick as this one, no wall made him feel that someone was waiting for him.

He stood up, walked to the door, and pushed it open. The sunlight stung his face, making him squint.

He stood there looking at that road, which twisted and turned into the distance. He remembered Uncle Zhou saying "someone is waiting," turned around, walked back, took a letter out of his pocket, and stuck it on the wall:

"My name is Li Ming. Twenty-seven years old. From California. I've been to many places, seen many walls. But no wall is as thick as this one. No wall has made me feel that someone is waiting for me. Now I know. Someone is waiting for me. In this wall, in those letters, in those words. Thank you for waiting for me."

After sticking it up, he stood back to look; the wall was even thicker. He smiled. He turned, pushed the door open, and walked into the sunlight. Uncle Zhou was still squatting at the door, his bicycle still creaking.

"Leaving?" Uncle Zhou asked.

Li Ming nodded. "Leaving."

"Will you come back?"

Li Ming thought for a moment. "Yes. I'll come back to see the wall."

He walked into the sunlight, getting further and further away. Uncle Zhou squatted there watching his back until the small black dot disappeared at the end of the road. Then he stood up, got on his bike, and continued forward.

A few afternoons later, a girl came to the church. In her early twenties, carrying a small bag, she stood in front of the wall for a long time. She reached out and touched the letter from Africa at the very top, then stood there motionless. Jenny walked over, stood beside her, and asked what she was looking for. The girl said she was looking for someone, and when asked who, she said she was looking for herself.

"I've been to many places. Mexico, Africa, many places. In those places, I also saw walls. People wrote on them, people read, people heard. But I didn't write. I didn't know what to write. Today, I came back."

She took a letter out of her pocket and stuck it on the wall. Jenny recognized it—Lin Xiaoyu.

The letter was very short:

"My name is Lin Xiaoyu. Thirty-two years old. I've been away for ten years, went to many places. In those places, I also saw walls. People wrote on them, people read, people heard. But I didn't write. I didn't know what to write. Today, I came back. To see this wall. To see you all. I saw myself. In those letters, in those words. Thank you for letting me see."

Jenny looked at her. "You're back." Lin Xiaoyu nodded. "I'm back." Jenny asked: "Are you leaving again?" Lin Xiaoyu thought for a moment. "Yes. But I will come back. To see the wall."

That night, Lin Xiaoyu sat under the old locust tree. Lin Feng was squatting nearby with a straw in his mouth; neither of them spoke. After a long time, Lin Xiaoyu spoke: "Lin Feng, do you remember when I first came?" Lin Feng nodded. "I remember." Lin Xiaoyu smiled. "Back then, the wall was still empty. Now it's full."

She looked in the direction of the church; the lights were still on. "Will this wall always be here?"

Lin Feng thought for a moment. "Yes."

"How do you know?"

Lin Feng pointed at the wall. "Because that wall is an echo. When a letter is sent and someone reads it, there is an echo. Someone reads it and will continue to write, and when they write, someone will read. The wall is full, but the echo remains. People leave, but they will also return."

Lin Xiaoyu looked at him for a long time, then smiled. "You haven't changed." Lin Feng said: "You're the same."

She stood up, walked to the church door, and pushed it open. The wall was still there, the letters were still there.

She walked to the very top, found the one she had written, the paper was very new, the corners not yet curled. She reached out and touched it, took the last letter out of her pocket, and stuck it next to it:

After sticking it up, she stood back to look. Three letters were side by side: one from Mexico, one from Africa, one from Xinfeng Town. Her ten years ago, her ten years later, her now. She smiled. She turned, pushed the door open, and walked into the moonlight.

Lin Feng was still squatting under the old locust tree. "Leaving?" he asked. Lin Xiaoyu nodded. "Leaving." "Will you come back?" She thought for a moment. "Yes. To see the wall." She walked into the night, getting further and further away. Moonlight shone on her, white and bright, like a river. Lin Feng watched for a long time, then lowered his head and continued eating mushrooms.

Margaret walked over with a plate of mushrooms and squatted beside him. "That person, came again." Lin Feng nodded. "And left again." Lin Feng nodded again. Margaret looked in the direction of the church, the lights were still on.

"Will that wall keep growing?" Lin Feng thought for a moment. "Yes." Margaret asked: "How do you know?" Lin Feng pointed at the wall. "Those people will come back."

The next morning, Uncle Zhou came to deliver mail. He parked his bike at the church door, pushed the door open, and went in; there was another letter on the wall. He leaned in to look; it was written by Lin Xiaoyu. The paper was very thin, the corners curled, the handwriting a bit blurry. But he felt those words were glowing, like the white light on the mushroom racks, like the winding road under the moonlight.

He stood in front of the wall for a while, then turned, pushed the door open, and walked into the morning light. The bicycle was still creaking at the door; he got on and rode slowly forward. The road twisted and turned into the distance, the wind blowing and messing up his hair. He rode very slowly, but very steadily. He knew he was not walking this road alone. Someone was in those letters, someone was in those words. They were all looking at him.

He touched the letter in his pocket; it was still there. He smiled, and continued riding forward.

In the distance, there were also people writing letters, people reading, and people waiting.

[Chapter 89 End]