掃不盡的落葉

窗外的天已經亮了。一道蒼白的晨光從沒有拉緊的窗簾縫裡斜斜照進來，落在茶几上。昨夜沒有收起的帳單、吃了一半的麵包，還有那張被雨水暈開的畫，全都浸在那片不甚溫暖的光裡。

Daylight had already filled the sky outside. A pale beam of morning light slipped through a gap in the curtains and fell across the coffee table. Unpaid bills, half a loaf of bread, and the rain-blurred drawing from the night before all lay within that light, which offered little warmth.

手機在沙發縫中震了兩下。一則工作訊息，一封催繳通知，還有幾條不知道什麼時候加入的群組對話。紅色的小圓點一個疊著一個，像城市一早便伸出許多隻手，催促他趕快回到原來的生活。修遠沒有點開。

His phone vibrated twice between the sofa cushions. There was a message from work, an overdue-payment notice, and several group chats he did not remember joining. Red notification dots piled one upon another, as though the city had awakened with countless hands already reaching for him, urging him back into his former life. Xiuyuan opened none of them.

他坐在沙發邊緣，怔怔看著自己的雙手。指腹間似乎仍留著一絲淡淡的油香，混著竹葉與山霧的氣味。他將手抬近鼻端聞了聞，心裡忽然生出一種難以說明的遲疑。

He sat on the edge of the sofa and stared blankly at his hands. The faint scent of lamp oil seemed still to linger on his fingertips, mingled with bamboo leaves and mountain mist. He raised them to his nose, and an inexplicable hesitation arose within him.

昨天的山路、半掩的院門、灰瓦下的一排紅燈籠，以及那位名叫慧本的年輕沙彌，都清晰得不像夢。尤其是黃昏時，他親手整理過的那盞燈。火焰在風裡縮小了一瞬，又重新站穩。那一點光不時浮現在他腦中，像有什麼無聲的東西，從昨夜一路跟著他回到這間狹小的屋子。

The mountain path, the half-open gate, the row of red lanterns beneath gray tiles, and the young novice named Huiben were all too vivid to have been a dream. Most of all, he remembered the lamp he had tended with his own hands at dusk. Its flame had shrunk in the wind for an instant, then stood firm again. That small light kept returning to his mind, as though something silent had followed him all the way home.

修遠低頭看了一眼茶几上的畫。「小艾，爸爸今天……再去看看。」話說出口後，他自己也愣了一下。接著他換上襯衫，把畫小心摺好，收進胸前的內袋，關上了門。

Xiuyuan glanced at the drawing on the table. “Xiao Ai, Dad is going back today… just to have another look.” He surprised himself by saying it aloud. Then he put on a shirt, folded the drawing carefully into the inner pocket over his chest, and closed the door behind him.

過去七年，他每一次出門去見小艾，走的都是通往那條水溝蓋的路。今天卻是第一次，他對著女兒的畫說完話後，沒有走向那塊水溝蓋。

For seven years, every time he went out to see Xiao Ai, he had taken the road to that manhole cover. Today, for the first time, after speaking to his daughter’s drawing, he walked in another direction.

山下的城市已經醒了。公車在站牌前急促停靠，車門一開，人群便低著頭湧上去。早餐店的鐵盤滋滋作響，騎樓下有人邊走邊回訊息，也有人舉著電話，對另一頭不耐煩地說著「快到了」。

The city below the mountain was awake. Buses stopped sharply, their doors opening to crowds with bowed heads. Griddles hissed at breakfast shops. Beneath the arcades, people answered messages as they walked, while others spoke impatiently into their phones: “I’m almost there.”

修遠穿過人群，沿著昨日的方向往城外走。他一度擔心自己找不到那條山路。然而到了溪邊，雙腳像比記憶更早認出方向，自然地帶他轉過彎口，踏上那條還帶著潮氣的石階。

Xiuyuan passed through the crowd and headed toward the outskirts along yesterday’s route. For a while he feared he would not find the mountain trail, but when he reached the stream, his feet seemed to remember before his mind did. They turned naturally at the bend and carried him onto the damp stone steps.

越往上走，城市的聲音便越薄。車鳴先被樹林擋在山下，接著是人聲，最後連手機的震動也不再響起。只剩鞋底踩過碎石的聲音，一步接著一步，在林間顯得格外清楚。

The higher he climbed, the thinner the city’s sounds became. First the trees held back the traffic, then the human voices faded, and finally even his phone stopped vibrating. Only his shoes upon gravel remained, one step after another, startlingly clear among the trees.

薄霧尚未完全散去。水珠停在蕨葉邊緣，偶爾被風碰落，滴在石面上。修遠走得有些喘，卻沒有昨天那種急於追趕什麼的感覺。

The mist had not fully lifted. Droplets rested along the edges of fern leaves and occasionally fell onto the stones when touched by the wind. Xiuyuan was breathing hard, but he no longer felt yesterday’s urgency to catch up with something.

不久，灰瓦屋脊從樹梢後露了出來。無盡燈寺仍安靜地坐在山腰。院門半掩，幾盞紅燈籠懸在簷下，晨光穿過薄霧，落在燈籠褪了些顏色的布面上。門旁的竹子被風推得微微俯身，竹葉彼此摩擦，發出細碎而綿長的聲音。

Before long, a gray-tiled roof appeared beyond the treetops. Endless Lamp Temple still sat quietly on the mountainside. Its gate was half open, red lanterns hung beneath the eaves, and morning light passed through the mist onto their faded cloth. Bamboo beside the gate bowed lightly in the wind, its leaves brushing together in a fine, unbroken murmur.

修遠站在門外，忽然有種奇怪的感覺。山下明明已經過了一夜，這裡卻像只是把昨日黃昏的燈收進晨霧裡，再慢慢交到今天。

Standing outside, Xiuyuan had a strange feeling. A whole night had passed in the city below, yet here it was as though the temple had simply gathered yesterday evening’s lamplight into the morning mist and was slowly handing it on to today.

他跨過門檻。那隻灰貓仍在石階旁，蜷著身子，尾巴蓋住前爪。聽見腳步，牠只睜開一隻眼看了看，又若無其事地閉上。

He crossed the threshold. The gray cat was curled beside the stone steps, its tail covering its front paws. Hearing him, it opened one eye, looked, and calmly closed it again.

庭院另一頭，慧本正握著一把竹掃帚，將散落在石板上的葉子掃向牆邊。沙——沙——掃帚掠過地面的聲音不疾不徐，每一下都像替清晨留出一小片空白。慧本抬起頭，看見修遠，臉上沒有驚訝，只合掌微笑。「阿彌陀佛，你又來了。」那語氣不像詢問，倒像早已知道他會回來。

At the far end of the courtyard, Huiben was sweeping fallen leaves toward the wall with a bamboo broom. Swish—swish—the broom moved across the stones without hurry, each stroke opening a small space within the morning. Huiben looked up, showed no surprise, joined his palms, and smiled. “Amitabha. You came back.” It sounded less like a question than something he had already known.

修遠也學著合掌，動作仍有些生疏。「我想見不空師父。」慧本點點頭。「師父在忙。」「我可以等。」修遠立刻說。

Xiuyuan copied the gesture awkwardly. “I want to see Master Bukong.” Huiben nodded. “Master is occupied.” “I can wait,” Xiuyuan said at once.

慧本看了看他，又看了一眼滿地竹葉，彎身從牆邊拿起另一把掃帚，遞到他面前。「那就一邊等，一邊幫忙吧。」修遠低頭看著掃帚，沒有立刻接過。「要掃多久？」「掃到不用掃的時候。」「什麼時候才不用掃？」慧本微微一笑。「不知道。」

Huiben looked at him, then at the leaves covering the ground. He picked up another broom and held it out. “Then help while you wait.” Xiuyuan stared at it. “How long do I sweep?” “Until there is no need to sweep.” “And when will that be?” Huiben smiled. “I don’t know.”

修遠皺了皺眉。他不確定這是不是寺院裡特有的回答方式，聽來像有道理，又像什麼也沒回答。但他終究接過掃帚。「我掃完，就能見師父嗎？」慧本已轉過身去，只留下一句：「先掃吧。」

Xiuyuan frowned. He could not tell whether this was simply how people answered at temples: it sounded meaningful and empty at once. Still, he took the broom. “When I finish, will I be able to see Master?” Huiben had already turned away. “Sweep first,” was all he said.

庭院不大，落葉卻比修遠想像得多。他先從老樹下掃起。竹掃帚有些粗硬，握柄也不合手，才掃了幾下，葉片便卡進石板縫裡。他索性加重力道，將葉子一股腦推向角落。不到一刻鐘，牆邊已堆起一小堆枯葉。

The courtyard was small, yet there were more leaves than Xiuyuan expected. He began beneath the old tree. The bamboo broom was stiff and awkward in his hands; leaves caught in the seams between stones. He pushed harder and drove them all toward one corner. Within fifteen minutes, a small pile had formed by the wall.

修遠抬頭看向後院，沒有看到不空師父。他又低頭，加快動作，心想只要趕緊把事情做完，就能問清楚那句「心之門」究竟是什麼意思，也能知道那位僧人為什麼會出現在那個雨夜。也許——他甚至知道小艾的事。這念頭一浮現，修遠握著掃帚的手便更緊了。就在他將最後幾片葉子掃進牆邊時，一陣風越過院牆，穿過竹林，毫無預兆地捲進庭院。

He looked toward the rear courtyard, but Master Bukong was nowhere in sight. He worked faster, thinking that once the task was finished, he could ask what “the door of the heart” meant and why the monk had appeared on that rainy night. Perhaps he even knew something about Xiao Ai. The thought tightened Xiuyuan’s grip.

嘩啦一聲。方才好不容易聚起的葉堆忽然散開，枯黃的葉片翻了幾圈，重新落得到處都是。有幾片甚至飄到他剛掃乾淨的石階上。

Just as he swept the last few leaves into the pile, a gust crossed the wall and rushed through the bamboo. With a sudden rustle, the heap scattered. Yellow leaves spun and settled everywhere, some landing on the steps he had just cleared.

修遠怔住，胸口湧起一股無名火。他快步追過去，把那些葉子重新掃回來。可他越急，掃帚帶起的風便越亂，原本聚在一起的葉片反而四散開去。一片落在茶桌底下，一片貼在石缸邊，還有一片被灰貓踩在前爪下面。

Anger rose in his chest. He hurried after them, but the more urgently he swept, the more wildly the air from his broom sent them apart. One slid beneath the tea table, another clung to the stone basin, and one came to rest beneath the gray cat’s paw.

修遠停住，盯著那隻貓。灰貓慢吞吞抬起爪子，葉片又被風推走了半尺。

Xiuyuan stopped and stared. The cat slowly raised its paw, and the wind pushed the leaf another foot away. He drew a breath. “Are there always this many leaves?” Huiben kept sweeping. “More when there is wind.” “And you sweep every day?” “Every day.”

他吸了一口氣，壓著聲音問：「這裡每天都有這麼多葉子嗎？」不遠處的慧本仍低著頭掃地。「有風的時候多一些。」「那你們每天都掃？」「每天都掃。」

Looking at the bamboo still shedding leaves overhead, Xiuyuan finally burst out, “If the wind will blow again and the leaves will keep falling, what is the point of sweeping forever?” Huiben’s broom paused. He looked at a leaf newly fallen beside his feet. “What falls now, we sweep now.” He gently moved it aside. “What falls tomorrow, we sweep tomorrow.”

修遠看著頭頂仍在落葉的竹梢，終於忍不住說：「既然風還會再吹，葉子也還會再落，這樣一直掃下去，有什麼用？」慧本的掃帚停了一下。他沒有立刻抬頭，只看著腳邊一片剛落下的葉子，平靜地說：「現在落下的，就現在掃。」說完，他將那片葉子輕輕掃到一旁。「明天落下的，明天再掃。」

Xiuyuan waited. “That’s all?” “What else?” Huiben replied. Xiuyuan had no answer. He had expected some profound teaching, but Huiben was already sweeping again, as though he had merely answered an ordinary question.

修遠等了一會兒。「就這樣？」「不然呢？」慧本反問。修遠一時說不出話。他本想從這幾句話中找出什麼高深的道理，慧本卻已經繼續掃地，彷彿只是回答了一件再普通不過的事。

Xiuyuan lowered his head. This time he did not chase every leaf the wind moved. He began with the ground directly before him, clearing it one small patch at a time. The broom passed over stone with a steady whisper.

修遠重新低下頭。這一次，他不再急著追逐每一片被風吹動的葉子，只從腳邊開始，一小塊、一小塊地掃。掃帚擦過石板，發出規律的沙沙聲。

At first, questions still circled in his mind. Where was Master Bukong? How much longer must he wait? Why had he come? What did this temple have to do with Xiao Ai’s dream? Yet as he swept, those questions slowly settled like silt sinking through water.

一開始，他腦中仍不斷盤旋著問題。不空師父在哪裡？還要等多久？自己為什麼會來到這裡？那座寺院與小艾的夢究竟有什麼關係？可是掃著掃著，那些問題竟像沉入水底的泥沙，慢慢靜了下來。

He began to notice things he had missed. The stones were not perfectly even: some shone smooth with age, while thin moss grew in the cracks. Last night’s rain filled the basin, where two bamboo leaves floated beneath a small reflection of sky. Under the eaves, droplets hung from a spiderweb and flashed faintly whenever the wind came.

他開始看見一些原本沒有注意到的東西。石板並不是完全平整的，有些地方被歲月磨得發亮，有些裂縫裡長出極細的青苔。石缸裡盛著昨夜的雨水，水面浮著兩片竹葉，恰好映出一小角天空。屋簷下有一張蜘蛛網，上頭掛著細小水珠，風一來，便閃出微弱的光。

Someone had refilled the teapot. White steam rose from its spout, curled once in the air, then disappeared into the morning light. Xiuyuan’s movements grew slower—not from weariness, but because he no longer felt compelled to finish at once.

茶壺不知何時已被人重新添滿，白色熱氣從壺嘴緩緩升起，在半空中打了一個旋，才淡進晨光裡。修遠的動作漸漸慢了。不是疲倦，而是不再覺得自己必須立刻完成什麼。

The gray cat rose, stretched at length, and walked casually across the place he had just swept, leaving plum-blossom pawprints in the fine dust. Xiuyuan looked down, and the corner of his mouth moved before he knew it. “You certainly know where to walk,” he murmured. The cat glanced back, curved its tail in the air, and vanished into the bamboo.

灰貓從石階上起身，伸了一個長長的懶腰，然後若無其事地走過他剛掃好的地方，在薄薄的灰塵上留下幾枚梅花似的腳印。修遠低頭看著，嘴角竟不自覺地動了一下。「你倒是會挑地方走。」他輕聲說。灰貓回頭看了他一眼，尾巴在半空中彎出一個小小的弧度，便鑽進竹叢不見了。

Something within his chest loosened briefly in the sunlight. He had forgotten how long it had been since he had stood so quietly—without chasing, without waiting, without returning again and again in his mind to that rain.

修遠仍望著那幾枚腳印。胸口某處像被晨光照到，短暫地鬆開了一點。他甚至忘了自己有多久沒有這樣安靜地站著，沒有追趕，沒有等待，也沒有在腦中反覆回到那一場雨。

Then his smile froze. He remembered Xiao Ai—or rather, he realized that for those few moments he had not remembered her. The discovery entered the newly opened place like a fine needle.

然而就在下一瞬間，他臉上的微笑忽然凝住了。他想起小艾。不，更準確地說，他是忽然發現——方才那一小段時間裡，自己竟然沒有想起小艾。這個發現像一根細針，無聲地刺進那片剛剛鬆開的地方。

For seven years, scarcely a day had passed without his visiting the manhole cover. Even when ill, even in heavy rain, even when everyone urged him to stop, he had believed that as long as he kept waiting, Xiao Ai would not truly have been left behind. And now a cat’s pawprints had made him smile. How could he smile?

他低頭看著手中的掃帚，指節一點點收緊。七年來，他幾乎沒有一天不去那塊水溝蓋旁。即使生病，即使大雨，即使所有人都勸他不要再去，他仍然相信，只要自己繼續等，小艾就不算真正被留下。可剛才，他竟然只是因為一隻貓的腳印，笑了。他怎麼可以笑？小艾還不知道在哪裡。那幅畫仍收在他的胸前。那一場雨沒有消失，那個空洞也還在原來的巷口。而他居然在陽光下感到了一瞬間的安穩。修遠胸口重新緊了起來。庭院沒有任何改變，竹葉仍在風裡輕響，石缸裡的天空也依舊明亮，可他卻忽然覺得自己像做錯了什麼。

Xiao Ai was still somewhere unknown. Her drawing remained against his chest. The rain had not vanished, nor had the hollow at the old street corner. Yet for one instant he had felt at peace in the sunlight. Guilt tightened his chest again. The courtyard had not changed, but he felt as though he had done something wrong.

他把掃帚放到牆邊。「我不掃了。」慧本抬頭看他，沒有追問。

He set the broom against the wall. “I’m not sweeping anymore.” Huiben looked up but did not question him.

修遠轉身走到老樹下，在昨日坐過的木椅上坐下。他彎著背，雙手交握，目光停在腳邊，不敢再看那片過於安靜的晨光。時間一點點流過。沒有人來勸他，也沒有人叫他繼續。寺院裡的人各自做著手上的事，彷彿他的沉默也是庭院的一部分。

Xiuyuan returned to the bench beneath the old tree. Bent forward, hands clasped, he fixed his eyes on the ground and could no longer face the morning’s stillness. Time passed. No one persuaded him, and no one ordered him back to work. Everyone continued with their tasks, as though his silence, too, belonged to the courtyard.

不知過了多久，迴廊深處傳來一道低沉而平穩的聲音。「你不是害怕忘記她。」修遠的肩膀微微一震。那聲音停了一下，像是留給他足夠的時間，聽見自己心裡的回答。「你是害怕有一天——」「想起她的時候，不再那麼痛了。」修遠猛然抬頭。迴廊盡頭，不空師父不知何時已站在一片搖曳的竹影之下。黃衣安靜，黑框眼鏡後的目光依舊沉靜如水。他沒有走近，只隔著半座庭院望著修遠，彷彿早已在那裡站了很久。風從兩人之間穿過。一片剛落下的竹葉，在石板上輕輕翻了一面。

At last, a deep, steady voice came from the far end of the corridor. “You are not afraid of forgetting her.” Xiuyuan’s shoulders trembled. The voice paused, leaving him time to hear the answer within himself. “You are afraid that one day—remembering her will no longer hurt so much.”