1. 

Mrs. Offered recently felt like she was being watched. Once, she could have sworn she heard a faint breath coming from the empty house, thin and cold, slicing the air like a knife. At first, she thought it was just the arrival of winter, with the walls getting damp and the tiles releasing a bit of cold air. Besides, her husband had recently said the electricity bill had gone up, so the heat couldn't be on all day. 

The flickering fire in the stove reminded her of her occasional low fever, with the warm flames roasting the tender meat for a long time until it became soft. The irregular shapes of meat floated around in the brown sauce, and the carrots were soft, like soaked fingers. The kitchen window was closed while the exhaust fan was turned to the maximum, and the refrigerator stood in the corner – like huge white coffin, filled with frozen meat that wouldn't decay. 

Mrs. Offered bent down to get plates from the cupboard. Something behind her also bent down. 

In the living room, her two sons were fighting over the television remote control. The laughter on the TV cut like glass. Her husband hadn't returned yet. At exactly 7:32 each day, he would come in, take off his shoes, hang his coat, loosen his tie, and ask: “Is the meal ready?” And without fail, the perfect Mrs. Offered would bring his favourite meal to the table three minutes later.  

She would soften the onions while cooking, then pick them out, as her husband liked the sweet taste but not the onion itself. She washed her boys school uniforms every day. She was always guarding them at night, in case her youngest son kicked the quilt, or her eldest was not wearing socks. She cleaned the bathroom mirror quickly after everyone had taken a bath; otherwise, it seemed to her as though there were layers of grey fish-scale-like marks, like the wrinkles of an old woman. 

To Mrs. Offered, this was not work; it was an act of love. She told herself so, otherwise she didn’t know how to live. 

Mrs. Offered was facing the stove, sprinkling salt into the pot – that’s when she felt that gaze again. This time, it was closer than usual. She turned her head slowly but all she could see was a small crack in the corner of the kitchen. It was hidden between the refrigerator and the cabinets – narrow and thin – like someone had gently scratched at the wall plaster with their fingernails. Over near the refrigerator, the air felt… colder. Mrs. Offered had never noticed it before – maybe it had been there all along. Houses get old, walls crack, and women's hands get thicker. These are natural things. 

She peered through the wall and saw only darkness. She reached her hand towards it, wanting to touch it.  

“Mom! He took the remote!” Her youngest son’s voice from the living room crashed towards her, interrupting her thoughts. Mrs. Offered immediately withdrew her hand. 

That night, the boys took her coveted fluffy quilt; light as a swan's feather, it was something she bought for herself before getting married, her favourite blanket. She wanted it back, but her youngest was curled up inside, trembling like hedgehog; her eldest was pressed against it, his cheeks red from sleep. She stood by the bed for a while, contemplating… finally deciding to leave the quilt with them for the night. 

When she entered the bedroom, her husband was already asleep. His breathing was loud and heavy, like a machine. Mrs. Offered lay at the edge of the bed, with only a small piece of the sheets covering her knees. 

The cold air from the kitchen seeped up to their bedroom, surrounding Mrs. Offered in the night. She closed her eyes and thought to herself, it’s okay…no big deal…I don’t need to work… How wonderful! I'm a full-time housewife. Taking care of my lovely sons and my dearest husband is my responsibility.

2. 

The next day, Mrs. Offered stood in the cold kitchen, washing dishes. After cleaning one, another appeared in the sink. After washing three, there were still five more on the table. The sink opened its mouth widely, reminding Mrs. Offered of her two children, crying loudly when they were hungry. The plates in the sink were white as bleached oyster shells, sliding around in the foam. 

A sigh came from the cracks in the walls again. It wasn’t the wind, or water running down the pipes… to Mrs. Offered, it sounded like a distant sigh from Salem in the 16th century, heavy with sadness. Like something that had been buried deep in the house for a long time and was still clinging, just barely, to life. 

“Who is it?” she asked. There was no answer. Mrs. Offered began to think she was being ridiculous… It was surely because she had stayed at home for too long that she had begun to hear the voices in the walls. She remembered reading in a magazine that housewives should remain cheerful, tidy, and patient. She also remembered her husband saying that women tend to be unhappy if they think too much. 

So, she turned off the water, dried the dishes, mopped the floor, collected the toys, and hung up her husband's coat. Then, she took out the shopping list: milk, eggs, salt, detergent, husband's shaving cream, children's vitamins.

Mine —She paused. Mine what? 

She thought for a long time. Water dripped drop by drop from the sink, and the clock ticked away the seconds one by one. The refrigerator behind made a low grating sound, like nails scratching across a wooden coffin. She couldn't remember what she needed. The pen tip stayed on the paper for too long and the ink seeped through, turning into a tiny black hole. 

She crossed out the word ‘mine’ and added below it: Onions.

3. 

The sound in the cracks on the wall gradually became clearer…and clearer…Sometimes, it would ring out when she was cutting vegetables.  

“Be careful with your fingers.” The voice was very soft, yet it surrounded her like cold air. Mrs. Offered lowered her head to the cutting board and discovered that the blade was pressing against her hand. She quickly pulled her hand back – there was no bleeding, only a shallow white mark across her fingers. Sometimes, it would ring out when she was mopping the floor.  

“Don’t kneel for too long…” the voice hissed out again. Mrs. Offered straightened up, her joints made a tiny noise. The floor was too polished, reflecting her face clearly. She saw a shadow shrinking and flattening out on the floor. Sometimes, the voice would ring out before her husband came home. 

“He's going to ask you that question again.” Sure enough, at 7:32, the door opened. Her husband walked in, took off his shoes, hung up his coat, loosened his tie, and then said: 

“Is the meal ready?” Mrs. Offered placed the beef on the table. She first served the meal to her husband, then cut carrots for her two sons, and returned to the kitchen to get a spoon. When she finally sat down, everyone had already started on their meal. And that’s the moment her husband complained, “It's a bit bland today.”  

“I'll add some salt.” 

Back in the kitchen, something in the crack of the wall gave out a strange sigh. Like the last breath escaping from the chest when someone is holding back their tears. The range hood continued to make intermittent humming sounds. For a moment, Mrs. Offered thought the walls were shaking. Vertigo swept over her, and she heard someone talking. “We used to add salt like this too.” 

 That night, she dreamed of that wall, with its mottled grooves and cracks, turning into a rugged heart. The pipes in the wall were dark-coloured blood vessels, the wires like black nerve endings. The kitchen twisted into a stomach and the sink became an inflamed throat. The walls were full of cracks, and in each one there was an eye. They stared out at Mrs. Offered. Those eyes, young and old, black, brown, blue... eyelashes covered in flour. Some of the eyes were wrinkled. Dry from crying. Not yet crying. Those eyes, all of them, were looking at her. 

Then, a hand reached out from the wall.  

The nails were cut very short. The gaps between the fingers were filled with the white foam of detergent. Then a second one reached out. A third. A fourth one... Countless hands touched her apron, her wrist, and her shoulder. But they did not grab at her. Mrs. Offered found her body was getting thinner, her ribs were contracting inward, her back was closer to the wall, and her chest was being slowly flattened by some invisible force. She wanted to shout but found that her throat was filled with shopping lists.

Milk, eggs, laundry detergent, her husband's shaving cream, her child's vitamins, onions,

tissues, tissues, tissues. 

4. 

When she woke up, it was still dark – there were still scraping sounds in the kitchen. The floor was as cold as iron. The clock was broken and stopped at 7:32, and the crack from the refrigerator extended to the clock, like a black line dividing the kitchen into two halves. 

Within the crack, there was a distorted face. Pale, blurry, like a supermarket receipt soaked in water.  

“Who are you?” Mrs. Offered asked. That face looked at her.  

“I’m you,” Mrs. Offered stepped back. 

“Wait…Am I having another hallucination?” she said. “I have a dear husband, lovely children, a house…Don’t overthink…” 

The woman in the wall didn't answer. Only continuous, faint breathing sounds... 

She suddenly thought of her name before marriage. Very short. Very bright. Like a little bird perched on her tongue. But she hadn't heard it for a long time. Her husband called her ‘dear’. Her children called her ‘mom’. The bills called her as an ‘affiliated cardholder’; she was called the ‘emergency contact person’ on the kids’ school contact form. The neighbours considered her ‘so lucky’; her husband said she “didn't have to go to work- how relaxing”.Everyone called her Mrs. Offered. 

She reached her hand into the crack. The moment it met her fingertips; the entire wall began to breathe. The sound poured out from the wall. Thousands of women began to talk in different rooms. — I'm just too tired. He didn't hit me - that’s enough. My kids are not grown up enough – I still need to take care of them. I have no income. This isn't my house. I used to write poems. I used to want to leave – Stop talking – The meal is getting cold.

Her hand sank into the wall. It was soft, damp, like a thick layer of skin. Her nails scraped off a bit of wall dust. The dust fell on the ground, like broken bones. 

“Mom?” Her youngest son stood at the kitchen door. She jerked her hand back. “Is there something wrong with the wall?”  

Mrs. Offered looked at him. His face was still soft, not yet developing the contours that would be much like his father's. She crouched down and fastened the buttons of his pyjamas. “No, baby” she said, “Everything is fine.” Mrs. Offered felt like she was about to vomit. 

5. 

She began to secretly write things. On the back of shopping lists, on paper towels, on bags of flour. On the pages of her children's homework book. She wrote so quickly, as if afraid someone would catch her. 

I washed thirteen dishes today. I said “It's okay” seven times today. I said “no problem” too much today. I forgot to take my vitamins today. I saw my face on the lid of the pot, like a piece of cooked meat.

After finishing, she folded the paper and stuffed it into the cracks in the wall. Without doubt, the wall would accept them unconditionally. When the paper disappeared, there was a soft scratching sound coming from inside. Like someone was reading. Or swallowing. 

One evening, the husband came home earlier than expected. He stood at the kitchen door and saw her stuffing the paper into the wall. 

“What are you doing?” Mrs. Offered stopped. The husband walked over, pulled out the paper and read aloud: “I'm not the perfect furniture for the house.” He frowned. “What does this mean?” 

She looked down at her hands. The tips of her fingers were stained with wall dust, as if she had just been digging up a grave. “There's nothing special about it.” 

Her husband sighed. “Have you been too idle lately?” 

When the words fell, everything in the kitchen was silent. The soup stopped bubbling. The clock stopped ticking. The walls stopped breathing. Mrs. Offered wanted to laugh. She also wanted to cry. She wanted to say that she got up at 5am every day when everyone was still sleeping. She remembered everyone's taste, clothing size, and allergens. She knew which school uniform was required each day, which bill to pay next week, and which meat needed to be defrosted in advance. She wanted to say that when she woke up in the mornings, she felt numb all over, and her knees would hurt after sitting for a long time. But she couldn’t say anything…soaked shopping receipts, scattered coins, and empty salt jars were all stuck in her throat. 

“Maybe.” That’s the only word she heard herself saying. 

Her husband’s expression softened. He crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it into the trash. “Don't think too much, dear” he said. “You should feel satisfied enough.” 

That night, she made slow-cooked beef again. This time, she added more salt. Her husband took a bite. “It’s better than last time.” 

The boys dripped the soup onto the tablecloth. Mrs. Offered bended over to wipe it. However, the reddish-brown stains didn't lighten; strangely, they spread wider and deeper, forming thin cracks, like hair. Black, grey, white, and golden…The hair of the woman who had been slowly eaten away by this house. Those lines climbed up her wrist and her body, like a huge spider web wrapping her. 

Loud sounds came from inside the wall; but sounds that only Mrs. Offered could hear: Now… Now…. Now!

Mrs. Offered stood up. “I’ve got to go to the kitchen to grab something,” she declared, though no one look up from their meal to acknowledge her. This was perfect. She had long gotten used to it. 

In the kitchen, the cracks along the wall were wide open. Darkness poured out from within. Inside, there were many women. Some wore aprons, some were in pyjamas, some held babies, some held brooms, some had white hair, and some looked as young as if they hadn't even begun their lives. The women in the wall beckoned to her. 

“Come in.” 

Mrs. Offered glanced back at the kitchen. There was still a pot on the stove. There were dirty dishes plates in the sink. There was a to-do list on the refrigerator door. Her husband hadn't finished eating. The children still needed their clothes washed for tomorrow. The trash bin hadn't been taken out yet. She still had many things to do. 

She couldn't leave. But she couldn't stay either. She couldn't cry. She couldn't shout. She couldn't be tired. She couldn't hate. She couldn't love them too much. She couldn't continue to love any longer. 

She took a step forward, towards the women. The wall cracks were narrow. Her shoulders were squeezed, and her ribs made a soft sound. She was in so much pain that she almost cried out. Those women held her and supported her with their strength. Their hands were cold, rough, and damp, like hands that had washed too many things and could never warm up again. 

“Where are we going?” she asked. No one answered. The wall slowly closed behind her. 

6. 

In the living room, the husband grew impatient. “Dear?” There was no reply. He shouted again: “We’re done eating. You can start washing the dishes now!” 

A faint laugh came from the wall - not loud. But it made the entire house tremble. 

This time, the house seemed to sigh. This time, the breathing no longer sounded like crying. 

墙缝里的女人

/Liv

1

Mrs. Offered 最近总觉得自己被什么东西看着。

起初，这种感觉只在她做饭的时候出现。尤其是在她弯腰打开烤箱，或者把切好的洋葱倒进锅里时，那道目光就会从她背后落下来，薄而冷，像一把没有柄的刀。她没有回头。她告诉自己，这不过是冬天来了，墙壁回潮，瓷砖里总会渗出一点寒气。况且，丈夫最近说过，电费又涨了，空调不能整夜开着。

“没关系。”Mrs. Offered 常常这样想。

她没有正儿八经的工作，至少她的丈夫是这样说的。她只是待在家里，照顾两个儿子，清洗他们在放学后踢足球而沾满泥土的校服，在做饭的时候谨记丈夫不吃洋葱但喜欢洋葱的甜味，知道牛肋骨最好要慢炖两个小时，时刻提防小儿子在夜里踢被子，注意大儿子不喜欢袜子反着叠，知道在每个人洗完澡以后，浴室的镜子必须尽快擦拭，否则水渍会像一片片灰色的鳞长出来，如同腐烂的皮肤。

这些事情不算工作。它们只是爱。

她也这样告诉自己。

那天晚上，她正在准备丈夫最喜欢的慢炖牛肉。肉块在锅里发出迟钝的声响，胡萝卜沉在褐色的汤汁里，像几根被煮软的手指。两个儿子在客厅里争抢遥控器，电视里传来尖锐的笑声。丈夫还没有回来。他通常七点半到家，进门后先脱鞋，再问：“饭好了吗？”

不过丈夫从来不期待她真的回答这个问题。

Mrs. Offered 把盐撒进锅里。就在那一刻，她又感觉到了那道目光。这一次，比平常更近。她慢慢转过头。

厨房墙角有一道裂缝。

它藏在冰箱和橱柜之间，很窄，很细，像有人用指甲轻轻划开了墙皮。在冰箱附近，空气变得更加寒冷了，那个巨大的长方形柜子如同一座棺材，里面塞满了不会变质的冻肉。Mrs. Offered 以前从没注意过它。也许它早就在那里了。房子总会变旧，墙会开裂，女人的手也会变粗。这些都是自然的事情。

她靠近了一点。

裂缝里是黑的。不是灰尘的黑，也不像是微弱的昏黄灯光没有照亮的阴影，而是一种很深的、像闭着的眼睛一样的黑。

她伸出手，想摸一摸。

“妈妈！他抢走了我的遥控器！”客厅里尖锐的声音向她砸过来，打断了她的思绪。

Mrs. Offered 立刻收回手。

那天夜里，两个儿子把她的蓬松被子抢走了。那条被子轻得像天鹅的羽毛，是她在结婚之前买给自己的东西，她最喜欢的一条毯子。她想把它拿回来，但小儿子蜷在里面，像一只发抖的刺猬；大儿子半个身体压在被角上，睡得脸颊通红。她站在床边看了一会儿，最后只是替他们掖了掖被子。

她回到卧室时，丈夫已经睡着了。

他的呼吸平稳而沉重，像一台不需要她操作的机器。Mrs. Offered 躺在床的边缘，只有一小片床单盖住膝盖。寒气从背后渗上来。她闭上眼睛，对自己说：

没关系。
不用出去上班，多好啊，我是一个完整的家庭主妇。
照顾我可爱的儿子们和最亲爱的丈夫，是我的责任。

第二天早晨，没有其她人注意，但Mrs. Offered发现厨房墙角的裂缝变长了。

它从冰箱旁边向上爬，越过一块浅黄色的污渍，停在挂钟下面。挂钟的秒针卡顿了一下，又继续走。Mrs. Offered 站在水槽前洗盘子。她洗完一个，水槽里又多出一个；洗完三个，桌上又出现五个。仿佛一个拥有不满足的胃口的巨人，张开着血盆大口嗷嗷待哺。盘子是某种白色贝壳，在红白相间的泡沫里滑来滑去。

裂缝里传来一声叹息。像是从16世纪的遥远的塞勒姆飘来的一声呼吸，不像是风声，也不可能是水管的声音，那是一种从墙体深处传来的、潮湿而迟缓的呼吸，像有什么东西被长久地埋在房子的最深处，至今还没有死透。

Mrs. Offered 愣住了。

水龙头还开着，水流细细地冲刷她的手指。她盯着那道缝。它安静地嵌在墙上，像一张没有嘴唇的嘴。

“是谁？”她轻声问。

没有回答。

她笑了一下，觉得自己很荒唐。果然是待在家里太久了啊，都已经开始把墙的声音听成人的声音。她记得某本杂志上说过，家庭主妇应该保持愉快、整洁、充满耐心。她也记得丈夫说过，女人想太多就容易不幸福。

于是她关掉水，把盘子擦干，把地拖了一遍，把昨天晚上孩子们玩完的到处散落的玩具和积木收拾好，把丈夫落在椅背上的外套挂好。然后，她拿出购物清单，在最上方写下：

牛奶。
鸡蛋。

新的盘子---有两个被儿子打碎了。
洗衣液。
丈夫的剃须膏。
孩子的维生素。
我的——

她停了下来。

她想不起来自己需要什么。

笔尖在纸上停得太久，墨水渗开，变成一个小小的黑洞。她把“我的”两个字划掉，在下面补上：

纸巾。

2

那天之后，墙缝里的声音越来越清楚。

有时，它在她切菜时响起。

“小心你的手。”

那声音很轻，像从很远的地方传来，又像贴着她的耳朵。Mrs. Offered 低头看见刀刃正压在自己的指腹上。她连忙把手缩回来。没有出血，只有一道浅浅的白痕。

有时，它在她擦地时响起。

“别跪得太久。”

她直起腰，膝盖发出细小的响声。地板被她擦得发亮，倒映出她的脸。她看见自己在地板里变得又长又扁，像被压进木纹里的一片影子。

有时，它在丈夫回家前响起。

“他又要问你那个问题了”

果然，七点三十二分，门开了。丈夫走进来，脱鞋，挂外套，松领带，然后说：

“饭好了吗？”

Mrs. Offered 等待着慢炖的牛肉，细微跳动的炉火让她想到自己时不时发起的低烧，温热的火苗长时间地焚烧着嫩肉，直至其松软。汤汁在盘子里晃动，像一面褐色的镜子。将牛肉端上桌子以后，她没有坐下---先给丈夫盛饭，再给两个儿子夹胡萝卜，提醒他们不要用手抓肉，又去厨房拿忘记摆上的勺子。

等她终于坐下时，大家已经吃了一半。

丈夫说：“今天味道淡了。”

两个儿子没有抬头。

Mrs. Offered 立刻站起来，说： “我再加点盐。”

她走进厨房时，墙缝里有什么东西轻轻地笑了一声。

那不是嘲笑。更像是许多人同时忍住哭声时，从胸腔深处挤出来的一点气音。

Mrs. Offered 忽然感到愤怒。

她拿起盐罐，站在裂缝前，低声说：“你笑什么？”

这一次，墙缝回答了。

“我们也曾经这样加盐。”

她僵住了。

“我们？”她问。

裂缝没有立刻说话。厨房里的灯闪了一下，白色的光在瓷砖上抖动。然后，Mrs. Offered 听见许多细小的声音从墙里浮出来，像针尖划过布料，像头发堵在下水口，像在其她人熟睡以后独自等待洗衣机时甩干的震动声，像无数女人同时在很远的房间里洗碗。

“我们也曾经把汤端出去。”
“我们也曾经说没关系。”
“我们也曾经以为这只是冬天。”
“我们也曾经有名字。”

Mrs. Offered 抱紧盐罐。

客厅里，丈夫不耐烦地喊：“盐呢？”

她立刻应了一声：“来了。”

她把盐放到桌上。丈夫没有看她，只伸手拿过去。小儿子把胡萝卜拨到盘子边缘。大儿子说学校里有一个同学的妈妈会开车送他去足球训练，问她为什么不会开车。

“妈妈在家里很忙。”丈夫说。

他的语气温和，甚至带着一点替她解释的体贴。

两个儿子点点头，好像这句话已经说明了一切。

3

那晚，Mrs. Offered 梦见自己站在一面很长很长的墙前。墙上全是裂缝。每一道裂缝里都有一只眼睛。那些眼睛有的年轻，有的苍老，有的黑，有的蓝，有的眼角爬满皱纹，有的睫毛上沾着面粉。她们全都看着她。

“你们是谁？”Mrs. Offered 问。

没有人回答。

然后，墙里伸出一只手。

那只手很瘦，指甲剪得很短，指缝里嵌着一点洗洁精的白沫。接着是第二只、第三只、第四只。无数只手从裂缝里伸出来。它们没有抓她，只是轻轻摸了摸她的围裙、手腕、肩膀，像在确认她是否仍然属于自己。

她低头一看，发现自己的身体正在变薄。

不是变瘦，而是变薄。她的肋骨向内收缩，背部贴近墙面，胸口被某种看不见的力量慢慢压平。她想喊，却发现喉咙里塞满了购物清单。牛奶、鸡蛋、洗衣液、丈夫的剃须膏、孩子的维生素、纸巾、纸巾、纸巾。

她醒来时，天还没亮。

厨房里传来轻微的刮擦声。

Mrs. Offered 赤脚走过去。地板冷得像铁。她打开灯，看见墙缝已经从挂钟下面延伸到餐桌旁边，像一根细长的黑线，把整个厨房分成两半。

墙缝里，有一张脸。

那张脸紧贴在黑暗里，苍白、模糊，像泡在水里的超市收据小票。Mrs. Offered 看不清她的五官，只能看见她的眼睛。

那双眼睛很熟悉。

“你是谁？”Mrs. Offered 问。

墙里的女人看着她，轻声说：

“我和你长的一样呀，你没看见吗。”

Mrs. Offered 后退一步，撞到餐椅。椅子腿在地板上拖出刺耳的声音。

“我很好。”她立刻说，“我有丈夫，有孩子，有房子。我一定是出现幻觉了！”

墙里的女人只是沉默着，持续地发出不轻也不重的呼吸声，此起彼伏的。

她感觉自己在被持续地观看着，凝望着，审视着。

Mrs. Offered 忽然想起自己少女时代的名字。那个名字很短，发音明亮，像一只小鸟停在舌尖。但她已经很久没有听见它了。结婚后，丈夫叫她“亲爱的”，孩子叫她“妈妈”，账单称她为“附属持卡人”，丈夫的朋友们说她“真有福气”，学校表格上写着“紧急联系人”。

大家都叫她 Mrs. Offered。

被献出的，被提供的，被安排在桌边、床边、灶台边的，灰烬里无法逃离红色的人。

4

她把手伸向墙缝。

“别碰。”墙里的女人说。

“为什么？”

“你会听见太多。”

Mrs. Offered 没有停下。

她的指尖碰到裂缝的一瞬间，整面墙开始震动。不是剧烈地摇晃，而是像一个巨大的胸腔终于开始呼吸。从沉闷的呼吸声中，墙缝里涌出声音，成千上万个女人们在不同的房间里说话。

有人说：我只是太累了。
有人说：他没有打我，所以我应该满足。
有人说：孩子还小，等孩子长大就好了。
有人说：我没有收入，所以这不是我的房子。
有人说：我以前也写诗。
有人说：我以前也想离开。
有人说：嘘，别让他们听见。
有人说：饭要凉了。

Mrs. Offered 想把手抽回来，却发现自己的指尖被强烈的引力所包裹，已经陷进墙里。它柔软、潮湿，像一层厚厚的皮肤。她用力拉扯，指甲刮下一点墙灰。墙灰落在地上，像碎掉的骨粉。

“妈妈？”

小儿子站在厨房门口，揉着眼睛。

Mrs. Offered 猛地回头。她的手从墙缝里抽出来，指尖冰冷。墙恢复了安静。裂缝仍在那里，细细的一条，好像从来没有张开过，仿佛一切都是她的一场梦境。

“你在干什么？”小儿子问。

“没什么。”她说，“妈妈在检查墙。”

“墙坏了吗？”

Mrs. Offered 看着他。小儿子穿着太短的睡裤，脚踝露在外面。他的脸很软，还没有长出将来会像父亲那样的轮廓。

她蹲下来，替他把睡衣扣子扣好。

“不，”她说，“一切都很好。”

说完这句话，她忽然感到一阵恶心。

从那天开始，Mrs. Offered 不再睡得安稳。白天，她照常做饭，洗衣服，擦地，收拾玩具，回复学校邮件，比较超市折扣，把丈夫的衬衫熨得平整。她像一只精确的钟，每天在同样的时间转动。可是每当她经过厨房，那道裂缝就会轻轻张开。

有时她看见一只眼睛。
有时她看见一截手指。
有时她看见一束被剪断的头发。
有时她看见一张皱巴巴的纸，上面写着一个陌生女人的名字。

有时候她已经分不清什么才是现实了。丈夫关切地开导她：

‘没关系的，你只是在家待太久了。可能是白天睡得太多了，所以会出现幻觉。’

5

Mrs. Offered 开始偷偷写东西。

她把字写在购物清单的背面，写在厨房纸巾上，写在面粉袋里面，写在孩子用剩的作业本最后一页。她写得很快，像怕有人追上来。

她写：

我今天洗了十三个盘子。
我今天说了七次没关系。
我今天忘记喝水。
我今天在锅盖上看见自己的脸，像一块煮熟的肉。
我今天想起我的名字。
我今天没有说出来。

写完之后，她把纸折起来，塞进墙缝。

墙会收下它们。

每次纸片消失时，裂缝里都会传来一阵轻轻的摩擦声。像有人在读。像有人把她的句子传给更深处的人。

可是墙缝也越来越宽。

一天傍晚，丈夫提前回家。他站在厨房门口，看见她正把一张纸塞进墙里。

“你在干什么？”他问。

Mrs. Offered 的手停住。

丈夫走过来，拿起她还没来得及塞进去的纸片。上面写着：

我不是这所房子的家具。

他读了一遍，皱起眉。

“这是什么意思？”

Mrs. Offered 低头看着自己的手。她的指尖沾着墙灰，像刚从坟墓里挖出什么东西。

“没什么意思。”她说。

丈夫叹了口气。

“你最近是不是太闲了？”

这个词落下来时，厨房里所有东西都静了一下。锅里的汤停止冒泡，挂钟停止走动，墙缝里的呼吸也停了。

太闲了。

Mrs. Offered 抬起头。

她想说她每天六点起床。她想说她记得家里每个人的口味、衣服尺寸、过敏源和坏脾气。她想说她的手腕夜里会疼，睡醒以后浑身会发麻无法动弹，膝盖跪久了会响，她已经记不清什么是自己的爱好了。她想说如果她停下来，这个家会立刻露出它本来的形状：脏盘子、冷饭、臭袜子、未缴账单、哭闹的孩子、空荡荡的冰箱。

但她最后只是说：

“可能吧。”

丈夫的表情缓和下来。他把纸揉成一团，扔进垃圾桶。

“别想太多。”他说，“你已经很幸福了。”

那天晚上，Mrs. Offered 做了慢炖牛肉。她多加了盐。丈夫吃了一口，说：“今天不错。”

两个儿子把汤汁滴在了桌布上。她立刻拿抹布去擦。

擦着擦着，她忽然发现桌布上的红褐色汤汁没有变浅，反而越来越深。污渍慢慢洇开，形成一条条细缝的形状。像深埋的许多女人的头发，一缕一缕，黑的、灰的、金黄的，是被这所房子慢慢吃剩下的东西。那些缠绕的线条从桌布延伸到桌沿，又从桌沿爬上她的手腕。

她听见墙里的女人们在说：

“现在，”
“现在。”
“现在！”

Mrs. Offered 站起来。

“我去厨房拿点东西。”她说。

没有人看她。

这很好。她早就习惯了不被注意。她走进厨房，关上门。墙缝已经完全张开，黑暗从里面涌出来，不像洞，更像一条窄窄的走廊。走廊深处站着许多女人。她们有的穿围裙，有的穿睡衣，有的抱着婴儿，有的手里拿着扫帚，有的满头白发，有的年轻得像还没有开始生活。

墙里的女人向她伸出手。

“进来吗？”她问。

Mrs. Offered 回头看了一眼厨房。

炉子上还有没洗的锅。水槽里有盘子。冰箱门上贴着学校通知。丈夫的饭还没吃完。孩子们明天要带运动服。她还有很多事情没做。

也正因为如此，她向前走了一步。

墙缝很窄。她的肩膀被挤压，肋骨发出轻轻的声响。她痛得几乎叫出来，但墙里的女人们扶住了她。她们的手冰冷、粗糙、湿润，像洗过太多东西之后再也暖不回来的手。

“我会消失吗？”Mrs. Offered 问。

“你早就消失过很多次了。”有人回答。

她想了想，觉得这句话很有道理。

于是她继续向里走。

客厅里，丈夫终于发现她太久没有回来。他喊了一声：“亲爱的？”

没有回答。

他又喊：“我们吃完了，你可以洗碗了！”

两个儿子继续看电视。

丈夫不太高兴地站起来，推开厨房门。

厨房很干净。锅在炉子上，盘子在水槽里，灯光白得刺眼。墙角有一道裂缝，比头发丝还细。除此之外，什么也没有。

“人呢？”丈夫说。

没有人回答。

他走到墙边，看了一会儿，伸手摸了摸那道裂缝。墙是冷的。他觉得这房子最近确实有点潮，也许该找人来修。

6

第二天早晨，丈夫带孩子们出门前，在餐桌上发现了早餐。

吐司烤好了，鸡蛋煎好了，牛奶倒在杯子里。两个孩子很高兴，因为妈妈今天没有催他们穿袜子。丈夫皱着眉，在厨房里走了一圈，没有找到她。他给她打电话，手机在卧室床头响了起来。

他对孩子们说：“你们妈妈可能出去散步了。”

他们都觉得这很奇怪。因为 Mrs. Offered 从不散步。她只去超市、学校、厨房和卧室。

接下来的几天，房子仍然运转。

盘子会在夜里变干净。衣服会在清晨叠好。冰箱里总有牛奶。丈夫的衬衫依旧平整。孩子们的书包里放着签好字的回执。没有人知道这些是谁做的。

丈夫觉得这也太奇怪了。

他请来了修墙的人。修墙的人看了看厨房墙角，说：“没什么大问题，一点小裂缝。”

他用白色腻子把裂缝填上。

那天晚上，房子第一次没有晚饭。

丈夫带孩子们吃了外卖。小儿子说味道不好。大儿子问妈妈什么时候回来。丈夫没有回答。他看着那面新刷好的墙，觉得它白得过分，像一张闭紧的嘴。

半夜，他被一种声音吵醒。

咔。
咔咔。
咔。

他走进厨房，看见那道被填平的裂缝又出现了。

这一次，它从墙角一直裂到天花板。黑暗在里面呼吸。丈夫僵在原地，听见墙里传来窸窸窣窣的奇怪声响，他以为可能是躲在里面的老鼠，又或者是年久失修的水管。只不过那些有点浮肿的，带着些白色灰尘的缝隙，让他觉得特别熟悉，好像在妻子一次又一次将牛肉摆上餐桌时的手指。

‘别乱想了。’

丈夫说。

7

第二天早晨。

水槽里堆着昨晚的外卖。好几天前的牛肉冷在锅里，表面凝出一层灰白的油脂，拼接成一张微笑的脸颊。孩子们的校服没有熨，丈夫的衬衫皱得像一张没有寄出的信。丈夫继续在房子里找她。
卧室没有，浴室没有，储藏室没有。

最后，他终于想起在厨房墙角看见的那一道裂缝。

裂缝很细，细得像女人闭紧的嘴。
他正要转身，却听见里面传来一个声音。

这一次，那个声音像是细微的叹息。

那呼吸声不再像哭泣。