溝蓋之下

雨又下了。

It was raining again.

這是這座城市第七次在這個月份裡落雨。雷聲交雜在車輛呼嘯與行人匆匆的腳步中，沒有人留意，一位穿著舊襯衫的中年男子，再次出現在巷口那塊熟悉的水溝蓋旁。

The seventh time this city had seen rain this month. Thunder rumbled between the roar of traffic and hurried footsteps. No one noticed the middle-aged man in a worn shirt who had once again appeared beside the familiar manhole at the mouth of the alley.

林修遠蹲下身，輕輕撫過那塊濕滑冰冷的鐵蓋。雨水從指縫間淌過，像時間從他生命中流走。他渾身濕透，卻毫無所覺，只低聲說著：

Lin Xiuyuan crouched down and gently brushed the wet, icy iron cover. Rain flowed through his fingers like time slipping away from his life. Soaked to the skin, he seemed unaware, murmuring softly:

「小艾……妳還在嗎？爸爸來了。」

"Xiao Ai… are you still there? Daddy's here."

說完，他又靜默片刻，像在等誰回應。然後，又喃喃地補上一句：

He paused, as if waiting for someone to reply. Then he added in a whisper:

「我今天帶了妳畫的那張……那棵傘形的樹，妳還記得嗎？那天我們說它像是站在陽光下笑的妳。」

"I brought the one you drew… the umbrella-shaped tree. Do you remember? That day we said it looked like you, smiling under the sunlight."

他的聲音忽高忽低，有時急促、有時含糊，像是在念咒，又像在哄一個看不見的孩子。

His voice wavered—sometimes urgent, sometimes mumbled—like chanting a mantra or coaxing a child no one else could see.

這並不是第一次。

It wasn’t the first time.

這些年，他幾乎天天來這裡。別人說他瘋了、怪了，有人說他沒走出悲傷。可對修遠來說，這只是他還能「和她說話」的方式。

He came here almost every day. Some said he was mad, others pitied him. Some said he hadn’t moved on from grief. But to Xiuyuan, this was simply the only way he could still “talk to her.”

七年前，小艾——他唯一的女兒，在一場突如其來的特大暴雨中消失了。沒有人知道她最後的蹤影，只在學校附近一個遺失了水溝蓋的孔洞邊，找到她的鞋子和畫冊。

Seven years ago, Xiao Ai—his only daughter—vanished during a sudden, violent storm. No one knew her final whereabouts. They only found her shoes and sketchbook near a gaping hole by the school—a drain where the manhole cover had gone missing.

林修遠相信，小艾不是死了，只是「被雨帶走了」、或是「掉進了另一個世界」，而這個水溝蓋，就是那扇門。

Lin Xiuyuan believed Xiao Ai hadn’t died. He said she had been “taken by the rain,” or that she had “fallen into another world,” and this manhole… was the door.

「她還在，只是我找不到路進去。」

“She’s still there. I just can’t find the way in.”

他常這麼說。

He would often say that.

但今天，他的情緒忽然像積壓已久的洪水，決堤了。

But today, something in him broke, like a dam collapsing after years of pressure.

他猛然站起來，對著那塊鐵蓋大吼：

He suddenly stood and shouted at the manhole cover:

「妳說話啊！妳不是說永遠都會在嗎！？妳不是說怕黑嗎！？我就在這裡啊！！」

“Say something! You said you’d always be here! Didn’t you say you were afraid of the dark!? I’m right here!!”

雨下得更大，像有人故意要把他的聲音吞沒。他喊得聲嘶力竭，終於跪坐下來，渾身顫抖，眼神空洞，像一頭受傷的獸。

The rain poured even harder, as if trying to drown out his voice. He screamed until his voice was hoarse, and finally collapsed to his knees, trembling all over, his eyes hollow—like a wounded beast.

巡邏車停下，兩名警察撐著傘走來關切。

A patrol car pulled up. Two police officers stepped out under umbrellas and approached him.

「先生，這裡不可以久留——」

“Sir, you can’t stay here too long—”

「你需要幫忙嗎？」

“Do you need help?”

修遠不說話，只緊緊抱著懷裡那張已經被雨淋濕的畫紙，低聲說：

Xiuyuan didn’t answer. He clutched the rain-soaked drawing tightly to his chest and muttered:

「她在下面……你們聽不到……但她還在……」

“She’s down there… You can’t hear her… but she’s still there…”

警察對望了一眼，正準備聯絡社工時，一道低沉而平穩的聲音忽然插進雨聲中：

The officers exchanged a glance, about to call a social worker when a deep, steady voice cut through the rain:

「如果她聽得見，會希望你是這副模樣嗎？」

“If she could hear you… would she want to see you like this?”

三人齊轉頭看去，只見不遠處屋簷下，站著一位穿著黃色長衫的僧人。他戴著一副黑框眼鏡，五官清秀，神情沉靜如水，站姿筆直，宛如一株靜立風中的青竹。

All three turned. Under the nearby eaves stood a monk in a yellow robe. He wore black-rimmed glasses, his features delicate, his expression serene. He stood upright—like bamboo holding its ground in the wind.

那樣的外貌讓人難以判斷年齡，既年輕又滄桑，像是從雨中走來、又不屬於這雨裡的世界。

There was no telling his age. He looked both young and timeless, as if he had walked out of the rain—but didn’t belong to the world of rain.

初見者或許會誤認為是涉世未深的青年比丘，卻又在他開口時，莫名生起敬意。

At first glance, he might be mistaken for a novice monk, untouched by the world. But the moment he spoke, an inexplicable reverence arose.

修遠愣住了。

Xiuyuan froze.

他記不得自己最後一次被誰這樣凝視是什麼時候——那種目光，不帶責備、不帶評價，也沒有悲憫，而是一種直透人心的看見。

He couldn’t recall the last time someone had looked at him like that—with no judgment, no pity, no blame. Just a gaze that saw through him.

僧人不再說話，只靜靜補了一句，像是自語：

The monk said nothing more. He added a quiet line, as if speaking to himself:

「這個溝蓋，是心之門。」

"This manhole… is the gate of the heart."

這句話像什麼東西撞了一下修遠的心。

The words struck something deep within Xiuyuan.

他沒回答，也沒哭，只慢慢站起來，像失去了所有力氣，只剩下一個空殼。畫紙還在他懷裡，他沒有丟下，也沒有道別。

He didn’t answer. He didn’t cry. He simply stood, slowly, as if all strength had left him—leaving only a shell. He still held the drawing. He didn’t let go, nor did he say goodbye.

他就這樣轉身，慢慢走進雨中。

He turned, and walked into the rain.

僧人沒有追，只目送他離去，站在原地，一動不動，像在聽雨，又像在守一盞燈。

The monk didn’t follow. He just watched, unmoving, standing as if listening to the rain—or keeping vigil over a single, silent lamp.