Some people prepare an extra portion, not because they know someone is coming, but simply because they’ve always done so.
That’s just how he was.
The sky wasn’t fully bright yet.
The breakfast shop’s metal shutter rolled up, the sound of scraping metal dragging long through the early light.
White steam from the soy milk shop seeped through the gaps in the tin roof—soft, like a cloud that hadn’t quite woken up.
The garbage truck had been parked at the end of the alley for a while.
The compactor grumbled low a few times before driving off.
The street slowly woke up.
Oil Seal was already sitting on the awning of the red bean cake cart.
Its front paws were tucked under its belly, like a lump of butter just placed on the table and not yet starting to melt.
Occasionally a breeze would make its ears twitch, but otherwise the cat’s body remained utterly still, like a shadow that had grown out of the awning.
Lin Yinan crouched beside the cart, mixing batter.
He didn’t look up at Oil Seal, nor did he glance at the mouth of the alley.
He just poured flour into the bowl, added water slowly, his stirring rhythm steady—like a manual calculation in progress.
His movements were unhurried, but sure.
With each turn of his wrist, at a certain point, the batter would take on a silky, bubble-free sheen, and then he would stop.
No extra stirring.
No finishing stir.
Just right.
When he set down the whisk, the auntie from the breakfast shop next door happened to push open her door and step out, holding a cup of tea still steaming.
She stood beside the cart for a while, looking at him like something that needed no worrying over.
“Not earlier today,” she said.
“Mm.” “When did Oil Seal get here?” “Don’t know.
It was already here when I arrived.” The auntie didn’t press.
She took a sip of her tea, turned, and walked back into her shop.
The metal shutter slid down slowly behind her, hiding half the storefront.
The alley was quiet for a while, save for the red bean cake molds slowly heating up, making a faint sound like dried wood cracking.
The first customers trickled in.
A man in a suit stopped in front of the cart without looking at the menu.
He always got two custard ones.
“Two custard.” Lin Yinan didn’t reply.
He was already pouring batter into the round molds.
His hands were steady.
The iron tongs never hesitated.
Flipping, lifting from the mold, bagging—his motions flowed as if driven by an invisible gear.
When taking payment, he’d wipe his hands on his apron before accepting the change.
The man in the suit left.
A middle schooler bought one red bean, eating it as he walked, his backpack bouncing behind him.
Then came a mother pushing a stroller.
Then an old man cycling past without stopping, just calling out, “Got taro today?” “No.” “Tomorrow?” “Don’t know.” The old man didn’t stop.
His bicycle turned at the mouth of the alley and disappeared around the corner by the breakfast shop.
Every batch of red bean cakes that came out would leave one behind.
Not a mistake.
Not a miscalculation.
Just…
One extra.
The breakfast shop auntie had come out again at some point.
She stood by the cart, tea in hand, like a bird that had grown accustomed to perching there.
She glanced at the solitary red bean cake at the edge of the iron plate and smiled.
“Another extra?” Lin Yinan was pouring a new batch of batter into the molds, not looking up.
“Mm.” No explanation.
The auntie didn’t press.
She just took another sip of tea and turned back into her shop.
She’d seen it too many times.
Then a red scooter screeched to a halt in front of the cart.
A young apprentice jumped off, drenched in sweat, helmet still dangling from his hand.
He clutched a brown paper bag and stood in front of the cart like someone who’d just sprinted across town.
“Re… return.” Lin Yinan’s hand froze mid‑air.
“…What?” The apprentice placed the paper bag on the cart.
It had no writing on it, but there was a deep crease, as if it had been clutched tightly for a long time.
Lin Yinan opened the bag.
Inside was a red bean cake.
It was gnawed and ragged around the edges, like it had been repeatedly tested by some precision instrument—the indentations were uneven, with even two overlapping sets of teeth marks.
“…It’s been bitten all over like this?” The apprentice straightened his face, expression earnest as if reporting an engine fault code: “Sister Jiang said she had to take several bites to be sure.” Lin Yinan looked at the cake, then at the apprentice.
“So—is she sure?” The apprentice pulled a crumpled note from his pocket, unfolded it, and read it very seriously: “Seven bites taken so far.
Still not right.” Lin Yinan looked down at the cake again.
“…Seven bites?” “That’s only half the cake left.” The apprentice nodded, his tone utterly solemn: “Two of the bites were too small.
They don’t count.” The breakfast shop auntie had wandered over at some point.
She held her already empty cup, peering down at the mangled red bean cake like she was appraising a piece of excavated artifact.
“A return?” The apprentice nodded: “Yes.” “After seven bites?” The apprentice turned the note over, as if confirming he hadn’t missed any information, then said in a tone like he was reciting an operations manual: “Sister Jiang said testing can’t be wasteful.” The auntie paused for a moment, then turned to look at Lin Yinan: “How did you offend her?” Lin Yinan: “…I don’t know her.” The auntie pointed at the cake: “Then why did you send her a cake?” “I didn’t send it.” “Then what is this?” Lin Yinan stared at the gnawed, ragged cake: “…I don’t know.” The auntie took a sip from her empty cup, as if to say, “The best is yet to come.” The apprentice reached into his pocket again and pulled out a second note.
“Sister Jiang said—” He cleared his throat, like he was about to deliver an important diagnostic result.
“The problem with this cake is—” He paused, as if to confirm he hadn’t misread.
“The gravity is off.” Lin Yinan: “…?” Breakfast shop auntie: “Huh?” The apprentice flipped the note over, then back again, wearing an expression that said, “I don’t get it either.” “That’s just what she wrote.” Lin Yinan took the note.
No signature.
No date.
No explanation.
The handwriting was concise, the strokes neat, as if jotted down while taking maintenance notes—”The gravity is off.” Lin Yinan stared at those words for a long time.
“…Did she say anything else?” The apprentice thought for a moment: “She said if you want to know what’s wrong—” “You can try it yourself.” Lin Yinan looked down at the gnawed, ragged cake.
The edges of the bite marks were already a little dry, the red bean filling peeking out slightly, a crumb of crust still stuck to the side.
He didn’t pick it up.
“…Take a message back for me.” The apprentice: “What?” Lin Yinan poured batter into new molds, his voice flat: “Next time, I’ll make it right.” The apprentice mounted his red scooter; the engine echoed in the alley for a few seconds before disappearing around the corner.
The breakfast shop auntie put down her empty cup and looked at Lin Yinan.
“So, exactly how did you offend her?” “I didn’t offend her.” “She ate seven bites of your cake and said the gravity is off.” “……” “If that’s not offending someone, what is?” Lin Yinan didn’t answer.
He looked down at the note.
The handwriting was clean, the strokes so simple they seemed written with a ruler.
He folded it and put it into his apron pocket.
Oil Seal, perched on the awning, had watched the whole thing from start to finish.
Watched the red scooter screech up.
Watched the apprentice jump off.
Watched the gnawed, ragged red bean cake get placed on the cart.
Watched Lin Yinan stare at the cake for much longer than seemed necessary.
Its ear twitched, as if logging the data.
Then it turned its head toward the other side of the street.
The repair shop’s metal shutter was still open, fluorescent lights glowing, the faint clatter of wrenches coming from inside.
Oil Seal didn’t meow.
It just kept watching.
Evening.
The street gradually grew quiet.
The breakfast shop had long since closed.
The soy milk shop’s steam had stopped rising.
The garbage truck hadn’t come back.
The repair shop’s lights were still on, but half the people inside had already left.
The alley held nothing but the wind, and the faint sound of the red bean cake cart’s cooling molds contracting.
The last red bean cake was still on the iron plate.
No one had bought it.
Its crust had turned from golden to light brown, its edges slightly collapsed, like an afternoon that had been forgotten.
Lin Yinan was packing up.
He washed the batter bowl and set it upside down on the rack.
He wiped the iron tongs clean and put them back in the tool bucket.
He closed the change box and slid it into the bottom drawer of the cart.
Then he stopped.
He took the note from his apron pocket.
He didn’t unfold it to look at it; just held it in his hand.
He opened the brown paper bag on the rack—the one with the gnawed, ragged red bean cake that had been returned that morning.
He had put it back in there in the morning and hadn’t touched it since.
He looked at it for a long time.
Then he tucked the note into the bag, alongside the cake.
Then he turned off the light.
Pulled down the canvas tarp.
Locked the cart.
He reached the mouth of the alley and, for the first time, stopped.
Not because someone called him.
Not because he heard something.
Just because he wanted to look.
Across the street, the repair shop’s metal shutter was half-pulled down, the light narrowing slowly through the gap.
Jiang Shoushi stood by the doorframe, hanging a wrench back on the wall.
She didn’t turn to look at him.
But on the corner of her workbench, there was a brown paper bag.
It had no writing on it.
But she hadn’t thrown it away.
Lin Yinan looked at that paper bag.
He didn’t call out to her.
After a moment, he turned and walked deeper into the alley.
The night swallowed his footsteps.
The repair shop’s lights went out.
The metal shutter closed fully, with a very light metallic clink.
The entire street went dark.
Only Oil Seal remained on the awning.
It hadn’t followed Lin Yinan home.
It hadn’t turned its head toward the repair shop.
It hadn’t meowed.
Just sat there, as if waiting for something.
Its eyes glowed in the dark, like two embers yet to go out.
The wind blew, lifting a corner of the cart’s tarp and letting it fall again.
Its ear twitched, ever so slightly.
Very soft.
End of Chapter 1.