95: Chapter 95 Old Zhou's Last Letter (Continued)

After that "Last Letter" was posted on the wall, more people came to see it than any other letter.

It wasn't because it was particularly well-written—the characters were still crooked, and the paper was still ordinary letter paper. It was because of those three words: "Last Letter." People would stand in front of it, standing for a long time, and then turn around to look at the bicycle at the door.

A faded red cloth strip was tied to the handlebars; when the wind blew, the strip fluttered. The bike was very old—the paint had peeled, rust had formed, and the rubber grips had worn away. But it stood there, together with those letters.

Old Zhou didn't feel anything special about it himself. He came to deliver letters as usual, the bicycle creaking, the canvas bag on the back seat packed full. He would fish the letters out of the bag and post them on the wall one by one. After finishing, he would stand in front of the wall for a while, then turn around, push open the door, and walk into the sunlight. Someone asked him if that letter was truly the last one; he thought for a moment and said, "I don't know." The person asked again, "Then will you still write?" He smiled. "I will. But I don't know what to write."

On the tenth day after that letter was posted on the wall, someone came to the church. It was a woman, in her forties, carrying a large bag, looking travel-worn. She stood in front of the wall, looking at the letters one by one. When she saw Old Zhou's letter, she stopped and stood there motionless. Then she reached out and touched those characters. The paper was thin, the corners curled, and the handwriting was a bit blurry. But she felt that those characters were glowing.

She stood for a long time, then turned and walked to the door, pushing it open. The bicycle was still at the door, the red cloth strip on the handlebars fluttering in the wind. She squatted down and touched the wheels. The spokes on the wheels were one by one; some were loose, some tight, some crooked. She touched them very slowly, as if she were touching a person's hand.

Jenny walked out and stood beside her. "Do you know Old Zhou?"

The woman shook her head. "I don't. But I recognize this bike."

Jenny was stunned for a moment. The woman continued, "When I was little, I lived in the village behind Greenfield. Back then, there were no roads, just a dirt path, full of potholes. Every Tuesday and Friday, a person riding a bicycle would come down this path. The bike was new, the chain was shiny, the tires were black, and the bell would ring as soon as you pressed it. He would deliver the letters to the village and place them under the old locust tree at the village entrance. People in the village called him 'The Mailman.' No one knew his name. But everyone knew that on Tuesdays and Fridays, he would come."

She stood up and looked at the bike. "Later, the road was paved—asphalt, smooth and flat. The village moved, too, moving into town. I left as well, and went to many places. But every time someone asks me, 'Where are you from?,' I say, 'From that road.' From that person riding a bicycle."

She turned around and looked at Jenny. "His name is Old Zhou?"

Jenny nodded.

The woman smiled. "Old Zhou. The Mailman. I've remembered him for forty years. Now I know his name."

She took a letter out of her pocket and posted it on the wall, next to Old Zhou's. The letter was very short, just a few lines: "My name is Lin Fang. I am forty-three years old. I come from that village behind Greenfield. When I was little, every Tuesday and Friday, a person riding a bicycle would come to deliver letters. No one knew his name. We all called him 'The Mailman.' Now I know. His name is Old Zhou. Thank you, Old Zhou. Thank you for the letters you delivered. Thank you for walking that road."

The day after that letter was posted, another person came. It was a man, in his fifties, wearing work clothes, with dirt still on his hands. He stood in front of the wall, looking at the letters one by one. When he saw Lin Fang's letter, he stopped and stood there reading it for a long time. Then he walked to the door and pushed it open. The bicycle was still at the door, the red cloth strip on the handlebars fluttering in the wind.

He squatted down and touched the handlebars. The rubber grips had long since worn away, revealing the iron pipe underneath, polished to a shine by Old Zhou's hands. He touched them very slowly, as if he were touching a person's hand.

Jenny walked out and stood beside him. "Do you recognize this bike?"

The man nodded. "I do. When I was little, I lived at the end of this road. Further away than Greenfield. Back then, there were no roads, just a dirt path, full of potholes. Every Tuesday and Friday, a person riding a bicycle would come down this path. The bike was very old; the chain would fall off, and he would squat by the side of the road to fix it. The tires would go flat, and he would push it. The brakes didn't work, so he used his feet to stop. But he kept coming. No matter if it rained or snowed, no matter if the road was easy or hard to travel. He would come and place the letters under the old locust tree at the village entrance. People in the village called him 'The Mailman.' No one knew his name. But everyone knew he would come."

He stood up and looked at the bike. "Later I moved away to the city. Every time someone asks me, 'Where are you from?,' I say, 'From that road.' From that person riding a bicycle."

He turned around and looked at Jenny. "His name is Old Zhou?"

Jenny nodded.

The man smiled. "Old Zhou. The Mailman. I've remembered him for forty years. Now I know his name."

He took a letter out of his pocket and posted it on the wall, next to Lin Fang's. The letter was very short, just a few lines: "My name is Li Jianguo. I am fifty-two years old. I come from the village at the end of this road. When I was little, every Tuesday and Friday, a person riding a bicycle would come to deliver letters. No one knew his name. We all called him 'The Mailman.' Now I know. His name is Old Zhou. Thank you, Old Zhou. Thank you for walking that road. Thank you for always coming."

The news reached Millfield. Eric was watering the farm when Sarah ran over to find him. "Eric! There are so many more letters on that wall! They're all written to Old Zhou!" Eric put down the hose and squatted in front of the shelves, looking at the mushrooms.

He remembered the first time Old Zhou came to Millfield, riding that creaking bicycle, the canvas bag on the back seat packed full. He remembered the first letter he had written, sent to Xinfeng Town, wondering who would read it. Old Zhou had read it. He had delivered it. Now those people, those who came from the village behind Greenfield, from the end of that road, they had written letters too. Written to Old Zhou. Posted on the wall.

He stood up to find Dave. "Dave, I want to go see those letters." He arrived in Xinfeng Town in the afternoon. The church door was open, and sunlight shone through the stained-glass windows, falling onto that wall. There were several more letters on the wall, all addressed to Old Zhou. He stood in front of the wall and looked at them one by one.

Lin Fang had written: "Thank you, Old Zhou. Thank you for the letters you delivered. Thank you for walking that road."

Li Jianguo had written: "Thank you, Old Zhou. Thank you for walking that road. Thank you for always coming."

There were more, from even further away.

Someone wrote: "When I was little, I lived in Millfield, and Old Zhou came twice a week. On the days he came, my mom would make mushroom soup. She said, 'The mailman works hard.'"

Someone wrote: "I live in Greenfield. Every time Old Zhou came, he would rest at the door for a while. When he drank water, I would bring him a stool. When he finished, he would say thank you. I would say you're welcome. He would leave, and I would stand at the door watching his back. I watched for many years."

Someone wrote: "I live in Xinfeng Town. When Old Zhou first came, there was no wall here. Later, there was a wall, and he posted his letters on it. He posted them for many years. Now the wall is full, his bike is old, but he is still riding. Riding slowly."

Eric stood in front of the wall for a long time. He didn't know any of those people. But he remembered the things they wrote. When Old Zhou came, he would also stand at the door waiting. Old Zhou would hand him a letter; he would take it, open it, take a look, and smile. Old Zhou would nod, turn around, and leave. He watched Old Zhou's back; he watched for many years.

The news reached Greenfield. Martha was playing the guitar when someone ran to find her, saying there were many more letters on that wall, all written to Old Zhou. She put down the guitar and stood up. It was evening when she arrived in Xinfeng Town. The sunset shone through the stained-glass windows, falling onto that wall. She found those letters and looked at them one by one.

When she saw the letter that said, "I live in Greenfield. Every time Old Zhou came, he would rest at the door for a while," she stopped. She remembered the first time Old Zhou came to Greenfield; she was still learning the guitar, playing very slowly, often making mistakes. Old Zhou stood behind her and waited for a while. When she finished playing, he called out, "Martha." She handed him the letter; he took it and put it in his canvas bag. When he drank water, she would bring him a stool. When he finished, he would say thank you. She would say you're welcome. He would leave, and she would stand at the door watching his back. She watched for many years.

She stood for a long time, then took a letter out of her pocket and posted it on the wall. The letter was very short, just a few lines: "My name is Martha. I am seventy-three years old. I live in Greenfield. Every time Old Zhou came, he would rest at the door for a while. When he drank water, I would bring him a stool. When he finished, he would say thank you. I would say you're welcome. He would leave, and I would stand at the door watching his back. I watched for many years. Now I know that he saw me too."

That evening, George came to the church. He stood in front of the wall, looking at those letters. Those from the village behind Greenfield, from the end of that road, from Millfield, from Greenfield, from Xinfeng Town. All written to Old Zhou. All writing the same sentence— "Thank you for walking that road."

He stood for a long time, then turned and walked to the door, pushing it open. The bicycle was still at the door, the red cloth strip on the handlebars fluttering in the wind. He watched for a long time, then walked back, took a letter out of his pocket, and posted it on the wall. The letter was very short, just a few lines: "My name is George. I am seventy-three years old. I live in Xinfeng Town. When Old Zhou first came, there was no wall here. Later, there was a wall, and he posted his letters on it. He posted them for many years. Now the wall is full, his bike is old, but he is still riding. Riding slowly. That road is not one he walks alone. There are people in those letters, people in those characters. They are all watching him."

The next morning, Old Zhou came to deliver letters. He parked his bike at the church door and pushed the door open to enter. There were several more letters on the wall. He stood in front of the wall, looking at them one by one. He saw Lin Fang's, he saw Li Jianguo's, he saw those from even further away. He saw Martha's, he saw George's. He stood there, looking for a long time. Those characters were crooked, some clear, some blurry. But he felt that every single character was glowing.

He reached out and touched the letter Lin Fang had written. The paper was thin, the corners curled. He remembered the woman from the village behind Greenfield; she had lived there when she was little, where there were no roads, only a dirt path. He went to deliver letters every Tuesday and Friday, placing them under the old locust tree at the village entrance. He didn't know who she was, but she remembered him. Remembered him for forty years. He touched the letter Li Jianguo had written. The man from the end of that road, who had lived even further away than Greenfield when he was little. He went to deliver letters every Tuesday and Friday; the bike was very old, the chain would fall off, the tires would go flat, the brakes didn't work. But he kept going. He remembered him. Remembered him for forty years.

He touched those from Millfield, from Greenfield, from Xinfeng Town. He didn't know any of those people. But he remembered the words they had written. He stood in front of the wall, looking at those letters. Looking for a long time.

Then he turned, pushed open the door, and walked into the morning light. The bicycle was still creaking at the door; he mounted it and rode slowly forward. The road wound its way into the distance, and the wind blew over, messing up his hair. He rode very slowly, but very steadily. He thought of that "Last Letter" and smiled. It wasn't the last one. There were still people writing to him, still people seeing him. As long as there were people writing, he could still deliver. Delivering slowly.

He touched the letters in his pocket; they were still there. He smiled and continued riding forward. In the distance, there were also people writing letters, people reading, people waiting. And he rode that old bike, moving slowly. The road was very long, but he wasn't in a hurry. Riding slowly, he would always arrive.

[Chapter 95 End]