91: Chapter 91 The Light on the Wall

After the wall was so full that not another letter could be squeezed in, fewer people came.

It wasn't that they didn't want to come; it was that when they arrived, they didn't know what to look at.

The wall was no longer visible, nor were the letters; only the few newly posted ones at the top remained exposed, like the last few leaves in a snowy field.

Some people stood and watched for a while, some reached out to touch them, and some did nothing at all, just stood for a moment and left.

Jenny came every day, sitting beside the "Ear" sculpture, looking at that wall.

She no longer organized the letters—there was nothing left to organize. Letter upon letter, thumbtack against thumbtack, even the gaps were filled.

She just watched.

She was the first person to discover a letter had fallen. That afternoon, a letter lay by the corner of the wall; the paper had yellowed, and the edges were curled.

She picked it up to look: it was the first letter Eric had written. The handwriting was crooked, like a child just learning to write: "My name is Eric. I'm twenty-three. I didn't graduate college. I don't know what I can do. The people at Millfield said, 'You can grow mushrooms.' 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."

She remembered when this letter was first posted, the wall had still been very empty. Now the wall was full, yet it had fallen. She placed the letter into a box. There were other letters in the box, all of which had fallen from the wall over the past few months, and she collected them one by one.

The next day, Martha's letter fell, too. The third day, Tom's. The fourth day, Molly's. Those earliest letters fell from the wall one after another. The thumbtacks had rusted, and the paper had decayed; they couldn't stay up anymore. Jenny picked them up and put them into the box.

The letters on the wall grew thinner day by day, like an autumn tree, its leaves falling one by one.

When Old Zhou came to deliver mail, he stood in front of the wall for a long time. Those earliest letters were gone—Eric's, Martha's, Tom's, Molly's. They had gone into the box.

He remembered the letters he had delivered, coming from Millfield, from Greenfield, from even further away, posted on this wall layer by layer, like the rings of a tree. Now, the bottom-most ring had fallen off first.

"They are still here," Jenny said, walking over to stand beside him and pointing to the box. "They're in the box. They won't be lost."

Old Zhou nodded. He pushed open the door, walked into the sunlight, got on his bike, and rode slowly forward. The wind blew and ruffled his hair; he rode very slowly, but steadily. Those fallen letters were no longer on the wall, but they were in the box, in those piles of old paper. He smiled and continued riding forward.

When the news reached Millfield, Eric was picking mushrooms. Sarah ran in, breathless: "Eric! Your letter, it fell off the wall!"

The mushroom in Eric's hand dropped to the ground. He was stunned for a long time, then crouched down to pick up the mushroom and placed it in the basket.

He remembered when he wrote that first letter, crouching in front of the mushroom racks, watching that white light. That letter had hung on the wall for a long time, from when the wall was empty until it was full. Now it had fallen.

He stood up to find Dave. "Dave, I want to go to Xinfeng Town to take a look."

Dave asked him what he was going to see. He thought for a moment and said, "To see if it's still there."

He arrived at Xinfeng Town in the afternoon. The church door was open, and sunlight shone in through the stained-glass windows, landing on that wall. There were far fewer letters on the wall; those earliest ones were gone. He walked to the front of the wall, crouched down, and traced it from one end to the other, from the bottom to the top.

He felt Martha's, Tom's, Molly's, Edna's, Mike's, Sam's, Jenny's, Chris's, and Tony's. He felt Old Zhou's, Wang Fang's, and Lin Xiaoyu's. But he couldn't feel his own.

Jenny walked over and stood beside him. "Yours is in the box."

Eric stood up and walked to the boxes. There were three boxes, two of them half-full. He opened the oldest one and flipped to the very bottom. The letter was still there; the paper had yellowed, the edges were curled, and the handwriting was a bit blurry.

He took it out and read it over and over. He looked at those crooked words and remembered that when he wrote this letter, he had seen himself. Now he stood here, looking at this letter. It was no longer on the wall, but it was in the box, in his hands, in his eyes.

He put the letter back into the box and closed the lid. He turned and walked to the front of the wall, standing there. Sunlight fell on him, white and bright. He said softly, "It's still here."

The wind blew, and the letters on the wall rustled.

When the news reached Greenfield, Martha was playing the guitar. Someone ran over to find her and said her letter had fallen off the wall. She put down the guitar, remembering when she wrote that letter; she had just started learning the guitar, didn't play well, and often made mistakes. That letter had hung on the wall for a long time; now it had fallen.

She arrived at Xinfeng Town in the evening. The sunset shone in through the stained-glass windows, landing on that wall. She walked to the boxes and found her own. The paper had yellowed, the edges were curled, and the handwriting was a bit blurry.

She looked at it for a long time, then put it back. She turned and walked to the front of the wall, standing there.

There were far fewer letters on the wall; those earliest ones were gone. But the later ones were still there, and the newly posted ones were still there.

She remembered when she learned the guitar, she played very slowly and often made mistakes, but she kept playing. Now she played much better. Those earliest letters were like the first songs she played—not played well, but they existed. They were in the box, in those piles of old paper.

She stood in front of the wall for a long time, then turned, pushed open the door, and walked into the sunset. Old Zhou was crouching at the doorway, asking if she was leaving; she said yes. He asked if she would come back, and she smiled. "I will. I'll come back to see the wall."

She walked into the sunset, going further and further away. Old Zhou crouched there, watching her back for a long time, then stood up, got on his bike, and continued moving forward.

That night, George came to the church. He stood in front of the wall, watching the letters. The earliest ones were gone, and the wall was a layer thinner. He took a new thumbtack from his pocket and pinned a newly arrived letter to the wall, right at the top. After pinning it, he stood there, watching that wall.

Edna walked in and stood beside him. "The wall you built, letters have fallen off."

George nodded. "I saw."

Edna asked if his heart ached. He thought for a moment and said it didn't. He pointed to the wall. "Letters are just like mushrooms. When the old ones fall, new ones will grow. Even when you can't see it, it will still grow."

He turned around and took that letter from Eric out of his pocket—the one he had taken out of the box.

Then, he pinned it to the wall, right at the top, together with the new letters.

He stood back a little to look, and the wall became a layer thicker again.

Edna asked why he had taken it out. George said, "It's still here. It shouldn't be in the box."

That night, Lin Feng was crouching under the old locust tree. Margaret came over with a plate of mushrooms and crouched beside him, saying that George had pinned that fallen letter back up. Lin Feng nodded. Margaret asked him why. Lin Feng thought for a moment. "Because letters are like mushrooms. When the old ones fall, new ones will grow. But the old ones are still here. They shouldn't be in the box."

Margaret looked at him for a long time, then smiled. "When did you learn to say things like that?"

Lin Feng said, "When biting on a straw."

The next morning, Old Zhou came to deliver mail. He parked his bike at the church door and pushed the door open to go in; there was one more letter on the wall. It was the one Eric wrote, the very first one. The paper had yellowed, the edges were curled, and the handwriting was a bit blurry. But it had returned to the wall, together with the new letters. He stood in front of the wall for a long time, then reached out and touched it. The paper was very thin, and the edges were curled up, but he felt those words were glowing.

He turned and pushed open the door to walk into the morning light. The bicycle was still creaking at the door; he got on and rode slowly forward. The road wound its way into the distance, and the wind blew and ruffled his hair. He rode very slowly, but steadily.

Those fallen letters had returned to the wall, beside the new letters, above those piles of old paper. They were still there, on the wall, in those words.

He smiled and continued riding forward. In the distance, there were people writing letters, people reading, and people waiting. And the person who built the wall had pinned the fallen letters back up. Because he knew, letters are just like mushrooms.

When the old ones fall, new ones will grow. But the old ones are still here; they shouldn't be in the box.

[Chapter 91 End]