98: Chapter 98 The Seed of the Wall

The scrap of paper and the dried mushroom at the base of the wall had been there for a long time. No one moved them, and no one collected them. They just stayed there, together with the white wood shavings and the yellowed letter paper.

People who came to the church to see the wall would walk up to it, first look at the letters, then lower their heads to look at the base of the wall. They looked at the scrap of paper and the dried mushroom. Some squatted down to look, some stood and looked, some glanced and left, while others watched for a long time.

A young man from California squatted at the base of the wall for an entire afternoon. He did not look at the letters on the wall; he only looked at the scrap of paper and the dried mushroom. The sun moved from his left to his right, but he remained motionless.

In the evening, he stood up, walked to the door, and pushed it open. The bicycle was still there, the red ribbon on the handlebars fluttering in the wind.

He stood there and watched for a while, then turned back, took a letter out of his pocket, and stuck it on the wall.

The letter was short, only a few lines: "My name is Chen Mo. I am twenty-four years old. I came from California. Today, I saw a scrap of paper and a dried mushroom. They are very small, very old, torn, and dried. But they are still here. At the base of the wall, next to the wood shavings. I also want to leave something behind. In a place where you cannot see."

After that letter was posted, even more people came to look at the base of the wall. They did not come to look at the letters; they came to look at the scrap of paper and the dried mushroom.

Someone asked Jenny what they were. Jenny said, "It's a letter, a torn piece. It's a mushroom, a dried one." Someone asked who wrote it. Jenny said, "Eric. The one who grows mushrooms." Someone asked who put them there. Jenny said, "George. The one who built the wall."

Someone asked why they were placed there. Jenny thought for a moment and said, "Because it's broken. Even when broken, it's still here. It shouldn't be in a box."

The news reached Millfield. Eric was picking mushrooms when Sarah ran over to find him, saying that someone from California had come, looked at the scrap of paper and the dried mushroom, and posted a letter on the wall. Eric put down the mushrooms and squatted in front of the rack. He remembered when he wrote his first letter; the paper was white, the words were black, it was posted on the wall, and the thumbtack was new. Now the paper was yellowed, the words were blurred, and it was torn. But someone had come to see it. Someone from California, who squatted there for an entire afternoon. He stood up to find Dave. "Dave, I want to go see the letter that person wrote." He arrived in Xinfeng Town in the afternoon. The church door was open, and sunlight shone in through the glass windows, landing on that wall. He found the letter and stood in front of it for a long time.

"My name is Chen Mo. I am twenty-four years old. I came from California. Today, I saw a scrap of paper and a dried mushroom. They are very small, very old, torn, and dried. But they are still here. At the base of the wall, next to the wood shavings. I also want to leave something behind. In a place where you cannot see."

Eric stared at those lines for a long time. He remembered when he wrote his first letter, he was also twenty-four. He did not know what he could do either. He wrote it and stuck it on the wall. Now someone else had written one too. From California, twenty-four years old, not knowing what he could do. He stood in front of the wall, looking at the letter. He looked for a long time. Then he turned and left. When he reached the door, he looked back. The letter was still there. He smiled.

That night, George came to the church. He stood in front of the wall, looking at the letter from California. Twenty-four years old, the same age as Eric when he wrote his first letter. He looked for a long time, then squatted down, looking at the base of the wall. The scrap of paper was still there, the dried mushroom was still there. He reached out and gently touched the dried mushroom. It was dry, hard, but white. He touched the scrap of paper. It was very brittle and would break at a touch. He did not touch it. He pulled his hand back and squatted there, watching them.

He remembered when he built this wall, he was the same age. In his early forties, with calluses on his hands from mining. He did not know where these letters would go, but he knew that someone would write them. Now someone had written. From California. In those unseen places.

He stood up, walked to the door, and pushed it open. The bicycle was still there, the red ribbon on the handlebars fluttering in the wind. He watched for a long time, then went back, took a letter out of his pocket, and stuck it on the wall. The letter was short, only a few lines: "My name is George. I am seventy-three years old. I live in Xinfeng Town. I built this wall. When I built it, I did not know where these letters would go. Now I know. They will go to where someone can see them. In those unseen places, someone is also watching."

After that letter was posted, one more person came to the church. It was not someone from California, but someone from Xinfeng Town. It was a child, seven or eight years old, who came with her mother. She stood in front of the wall, could not reach the letters, so she squatted down to look at the base of the wall. She looked at the scrap of paper, looked at the dried mushroom. She looked for a long time, then looked up and asked her mother, "What is this?" Her mother said, "A letter, a torn piece. A mushroom, a dried one." The child asked again, "Who wrote it?" Her mother said, "Eric. The one who grows mushrooms. George. The one who built the wall." The child squatted there, looking at the scrap of paper and the dried mushroom, looking for a long time. Then she stood up, ran to the door, and pushed it open. The bicycle was still there, the red ribbon on the handlebars fluttering in the wind. She stood there and watched for a while, then ran back, took a piece of paper out of her pocket, and stuck it on the wall. The paper was torn from a notebook, and there were only a few lines on it, crooked, like a child who had just learned to write:

"My name is Lin Xiaohe. I am seven years old. I live in Xinfeng Town. Today, I saw a scrap of paper and a dried mushroom. They are very small, very old. But they are still here. I also want to leave something behind. In a place where you can see."

After that letter was posted, Jenny stood in front of the wall and watched for a long time. Seven years old, about the same age as Molly when she wrote her first letter. She remembered the first letter Molly wrote, which was also torn from a notebook and was also crooked. She posted it on the wall, next to Eric's letter. Now that letter was yellowed, the corners were curled, and it was torn. But someone had written again. From Xinfeng Town, by herself, seven years old, not knowing what she could do. She wrote it and posted it on the wall. In those unseen places, someone was also watching.

She turned and walked to the box, took out the first letter Molly had written. The paper was yellowed, the corners curled, and the handwriting a little blurred. She posted it next to Lin Xiaohe's letter. Two letters, one old, one new. Molly's, Lin Xiaohe's. She stood back a little and looked; that wall had become one layer thicker.

When the news reached the Coffee Shop, Molly was serving tables. Someone ran over to find her, saying that a seven-year-old child had written a letter and posted it on the wall, and Jenny had also posted her first letter up there. Molly put down the tray and stood there. She remembered when she wrote her first letter, it was also torn from a notebook, and it was also crooked. She wrote it, posted it on the wall, next to Eric's letter. Now that letter was yellowed, the corners curled, and it was torn. But someone had written again. From Xinfeng Town, by herself, seven years old, the same age as she was when she wrote her first letter.

When she ran to the church, it was evening. The sunset shone in through the stained-glass windows, falling on that wall. She found her own letter, yellowed, the corners curled, the handwriting a little blurred. Next to it was Lin Xiaohe's letter, the paper white, the words black. She stood in front of it for a long time, then squatted down, looking at the base of the wall. The scrap of paper was still there, the dried mushroom was still there. She looked for a long time, then stood up, walked to the door, and pushed it open. The bicycle was still there, the red ribbon on the handlebars fluttering in the wind. She stood there and watched for a while, then went back, took a letter out of her pocket, and stuck it on the wall. The letter was short, only a few lines:

"My name is Molly. I am twelve years old. I help serve tables at the Coffee Shop. Today, I saw a letter. It was written by a seven-year-old child. Her name is Lin Xiaohe. She lives in Xinfeng Town. The first letter she wrote is just like the one I wrote. Crooked, torn from a notebook. I saw her. In those words. Thank you for writing."

That night, Lin Feng was squatting under the old locust tree. Margaret brought a plate of mushrooms over and squatted next to him.

"Lin Feng, a seven-year-old child wrote a letter."

Lin Feng nodded.

"Molly wrote one too."

Lin Feng nodded again.

Margaret looked toward the church; the lights were still on. "That wall will keep growing."

Lin Feng thought for a moment. "It will."

Margaret asked, "How do you know?"

Lin Feng pointed to the wall. "Because there are still people writing. Seven-year-olds, twelve-year-olds, twenty-four-year-olds. They write, and someone will read it. Someone reads it, and someone will continue to write. When the wall is full, they will post it on top. When it tears, they will put it at the base of the wall. When it dries, they will also put it at the base of the wall. Someone in those unseen places is also watching."

Early the next morning, Old Zhou came to deliver mail. He parked his bike at the church door and pushed the door open. There was another letter on the wall. It was written by that seven-year-old child. The paper was torn from a notebook, the words were crooked, like a child who had just learned to write. He stood in front of it for a long time. He remembered when he wrote his first letter, he was also that age. Torn from a notebook, crooked. Who he wrote it to, he had forgotten. But he remembered that he had written it.

He stood for a long time, then turned and pushed the door open, walking into the morning light. The 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 over, messing up his hair. He rode very slowly, but very steadily. He thought of those earliest letters, those torn scraps of paper, that dried mushroom. And that letter written by the seven-year-old child. They were still there. On the wall, at the base of the wall, next to the wood shavings. In the eyes of those who looked at it.

He smiled and continued to ride forward. In the distance, someone was also writing letters, someone was watching, and someone was waiting. And those earliest letters, the paper yellowed, the words blurred, torn. But the fragments were still there. At the base of the wall, next to the wood shavings. In the eyes of those who looked at it. And those newly written letters, white, black, crooked. They would also grow old. They would also yellow, they would also tear. But someone would also watch them. In those unseen places, someone would also be watching.

He rode very slowly, but very steadily.

[Chapter 98 End]