墙上的斑点

Lao Li retired, and his days suddenly felt as empty as a freshly washed porcelain bowl, so empty you could see your reflection in it.

His wife passed away the year before last, and his son was abroad, rarely returning even once a year. Lao Li was alone, guarding an old two-bedroom apartment, counting the spots on the wall to pass the time.

The spots were originally unremarkable. They were on the wall by the head of the bed, on the pale yellow surface, scattered sparsely, like old stains, or perhaps tea stains carelessly splashed. At first, Lao Li didn't pay much attention. Walls, after all, are rarely perfectly clean. But as the days went by, facing them every day, the spots entered Lao Li's eyes and his heart.

He began to wonder, how did these spots get there? In what year, on what month, by whose unintentional act? Was it wine spilled during laughter, or tears shed in sorrow? Lao Li thought and thought, his head aching, but he couldn't figure it out.

The spots, then, became Lao Li's companions.

When he woke up in the morning, the sunlight streamed through the window, shining on the spots, and Lao Li felt that the spots had also woken up. He would talk to the spots, rambling on about his dreams from the night before, the price of vegetables today, and when his son might come back. The spots remained silent, just staying there, as if listening, or perhaps daydreaming.

Lao Li also ate facing the spots. A bowl of noodles, a few green vegetables, Lao Li ate slowly and deliberately. He looked at the spots and felt that they were also hungry, so he picked up a noodle with his chopsticks, brought it to the wall, and gently said, "Eat, eat."

At night, Lao Li lay in bed, staring at the spots until his eyelids drooped. The spots, under the dim light, became blurry, as if they were about to melt into the wall, or perhaps jump out. Lao Li thought, did these spots also have life? Were they also looking at him?

One day, Lao Li suddenly felt that the spots were moving.

He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Yes, they were moving. The spots, as if they had come to life, were slowly wriggling, like small insects, or like drops of water. Lao Li was startled, but he couldn't help but want to get closer to look.

He got out of bed, walked to the wall, and reached out his hand, wanting to touch them. But before his fingers touched the wall, the spots stopped, returning to their original state. Lao Li stood there, stunned, unsure whether to be happy or afraid.

From then on, Lao Li became even more obsessed with the spots. He felt that the spots were alive, that they were his friends, his family. He talked to the spots, smiled at the spots, cried to the spots. He felt that the spots could understand his words, could understand his heart.

His son called, asking him how he was doing. Lao Li said, "I'm fine, I have them to keep me company."

His son, hearing this, assumed he was talking about the cats or dogs at home, and didn't ask further.

Lao Li's neighbors occasionally came to visit. Seeing Lao Li talking to himself facing the wall, they were puzzled. They asked Lao Li, what are you doing? Lao Li pointed to the spots on the wall and said, "I'm chatting with them."

The neighbors looked at each other, thinking Lao Li had gone senile.

Days passed, and the spots on the wall became clearer and more vivid. They were no longer simple stains, but like a painting, a constantly changing painting. Lao Li felt that in this painting, there were mountains and water, people and objects, a world.

He was completely immersed in this world, forgetting time, forgetting himself.

One day, Lao Li fell ill. He lay in bed, looking at the spots on the wall, and felt them getting closer and closer, bigger and bigger. They were like faces, familiar yet strange faces.

Lao Li reached out his hand, wanting to grab them, but he couldn't grab anything. He felt a wave of dizziness, and then, he knew nothing.

Lao Li passed away.

His son came back for the funeral, and after handling the affairs, he prepared to sell the house. He looked at the wall by the head of the bed. There, besides a few faint stains, there was nothing.