(Lin Yinan’s Perspective) The sky wasn’t fully bright yet.
Lin Yinan stood in the kitchen, holding the measuring cup.
The water had already been poured into the flour, but he hadn’t started stirring.
He stood there, looking down at the flour and water in the bowl, still unmixed, like two people who hadn’t yet decided whether to get to know each other.
He set down the measuring cup.
He walked to the refrigerator and opened the door.
Cold air rushed out, hitting his face.
The ginger was still beside the sweet potatoes, side by side, a finger’s width apart.
Next to it, another thing had appeared—the wire ring.
He had put it in last night.
Between the ginger and the sweet potatoes, three things lined up in a row, like a sentence not yet finished.
He looked at it for a few seconds.
Then he closed the refrigerator door.
He went back to the counter, reached his hand into the bowl, and began to stir.
The flour and water slowly merged, turning from two separate things into a uniform batter.
The rhythm of his wrist was as steady as always, but halfway through he paused and added an extra scoop of water.
Not in the recipe.
His own addition.
He didn’t know why.
He just felt that today’s batter should be a little thinner.
The whisk kept turning.
The batter flowed slowly in the bowl, like a river still finding its direction.
He watched it, not judging its consistency by habit.
He just watched, waiting for it to settle on its own.
By the time the copper molds were set on the burner, the sky had brightened.
In the alley, steam from the soy milk shop was seeping through the gaps in the tin roof—soft, white, like a cloud that hadn’t quite woken up.
The breakfast shop’s metal shutter hadn’t been pulled up yet.
The repair shop’s shutter was still closed too.
The whole street was slowly waking.
He lit the burner.
A blue flame flickered once in the morning light, and the bottom of the copper molds began to heat.
He opened the fridge and took out the new bowl of batter.
When he poured it into the molds, the batter flowed a little faster than usual—like water, not mud.
He watched it spread slowly in the round wells, not using the iron tongs to push it.
Let it stand on its own.
When the first batch came out, he placed them on the iron plate.
Six cakes.
Each one golden and perfectly puffed, the edges not collapsed.
He stood there, looking down at them, then picked up the one on the far right with the tongs, put it in a fresh brown paper bag, folded one corner down, and set it on the edge of the cart.
He hadn’t decided who it was for.
But he knew someone would come for it.
By the time Sister Meiyun pushed open her shutter and stepped out, the light in the alley had brightened a little.
She held her tea, stood at the breakfast shop entrance, glanced at the cart first—the burner was already hot, white steam rising from the copper molds.
Then her gaze dropped to the brown paper bag on the edge of the cart.
She didn’t speak.
She took a sip of tea, then glanced down at the stopwatch in her apron pocket.
Didn’t press it.
She stood there for a while before finally speaking: “You added an extra scoop of water today.” Lin Yinan was pouring a new batch of batter, not looking up.
“Mm.” “Do you know what you’re doing?” He paused.
The measuring cup hung in midair, droplets of water sliding slowly down its side.
“No.” Sister Meiyun didn’t press.
She took another sip of tea, turned, and walked back into the breakfast shop.
After two steps, she stopped and said without turning around: “It might rain today.” She walked through the metal shutter.
It slid down slowly behind her, the sound of scraping metal dragging long through the alley before falling quiet.
Lin Yinan stood behind the cart, watching that metal shutter close, then looked down at the measuring cup in his hand.
He didn’t know what he was doing.
But he knew the batter’s consistency was right.
Not right by the recipe.
Right in another way.
The repair shop’s metal shutter rolled up.
A row of fluorescent lights came on, humming very low.
Jiang Shoushi walked in and changed into her coveralls.
She walked to the workbench; a new work order sat on the rack—brake noise.
She glanced at it, then set it down.
But she didn’t walk over to that car.
She walked to the entrance.
Didn’t step over the threshold.
She stood in the doorframe, looking across the alley at the cart.
There was a brown paper bag on the edge of the cart.
One corner folded down.
She saw it.
She didn’t walk over to take it.
But she stood there, looking at it for a long time—long enough that when the apprentice walked in, she was still standing there.
The apprentice stopped, followed her gaze.
He didn’t ask, “Boss, what are you looking at?” He knew what she was looking at.
He crouched down and started loosening another tire, saying nothing.
Jiang Shoushi stood in the doorway.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, lifting a strand of her hair.
She didn’t move.
Around noon, the sky changed.
Clouds piled in from the west, thick layers, covering the sunlight inch by inch.
The light in the alley shifted from gold to gray-white.
Wind poured in from the mouth of the alley, snapping the cart’s canvas tarp like a drum.
Lin Yinan was washing the copper molds.
The water ran loudly.
He looked up at the sky.
It was going to rain.
But he didn’t close up.
He set the washed molds upside down on the rack, then walked into the doorway and stood there.
Waiting for the rain.
The soy milk shop owner pulled down his shutter.
The breakfast shop’s shutter came down too.
People on the street quickly disappeared, like dust blown away by the wind.
The alley held nothing but the wind and an occasional leaf spinning in circles on the pavement.
Lin Yinan stood under the doorway, hands at his sides.
He didn’t go inside.
After a while, he heard another sound—metal scraping, like the shutter track vibrating slightly in the wind.
He turned to look across the alley.
The repair shop’s shutter hadn’t been closed.
The fluorescent lights were still on.
Jiang Shoushi stood at the entrance, pulling a waterproof tarp toward the workbench.
The wind puffed the tarp up like a full sail; she held one side down with one hand, pressing it onto the toolbox.
The edge of the tarp flapped a few times in the wind, then settled.
Then she too stood in the doorframe.
Across the alley.
Two people standing under their own doorways.
The wind passed between them, lifting dust and leaves from the road, carrying them toward the mouth of the alley.
No one spoke.
No one went inside.
They just stood there, watching the same sky shift from gray-white to iron gray.
The rain came.
The first drop landed on the step in front of him.
Loud.
Like a period.
The second drop hit the metal shelf at the repair shop entrance.
Clang—clear, like metal gently tapped.
Then, within seconds, the rain became heavy.
Like a wall falling from the sky, covering the entire alley.
Water poured from the edges of the eaves, forming curtains in front of each of them.
Across the rain, across the alley, he could see her standing in the doorframe, her hand resting on the edge of the frame, like someone who hadn’t yet decided whether to close the door.
Water cascaded from the eaves, soaking the step in front of him.
He stepped back, but didn’t go inside.
Across the way, she stepped back too.
But she didn’t go inside either.
They both stood a little deeper in their doorways, watching the same rain.
The wind blew the rain sideways, splashing into the doorway and wetting the tips of his shoes.
He looked down.
The tips were wet, dark watermarks spreading slowly along the edges of his canvas shoes.
He didn’t step back again.
He looked up.
Across the way, she was still standing in the doorframe.
Rain streamed from the eaves, forming a curtain in front of her; her face was hard to see through the rain.
But he could see she hadn’t gone inside.
She stood there, hands at her sides, like someone still waiting for the rain to stop.
For a moment, the wind was especially strong.
It poured in from the mouth of the alley, lifting a corner of the cart’s canvas tarp and exposing the copper molds inside.
The molds were cold; the burner had long gone out.
On the iron plate, one cake remained.
The last one.
Unsold.
He had left it there.
Rainwater splashed onto the edge of the iron plate, just a palm’s width away from that cake.
He saw it.
But he didn’t walk out.
Because he saw across the way.
Jiang Shoushi took a step forward.
Not out of the doorframe.
But she moved to the very edge of the frame.
She raised her hand.
Rain fell into her palm.
He stood under the doorway, rain forming a curtain in front of him.
His hands hung at his sides; he didn’t raise them.
But he watched her reach her hand into the rain.
Palm up, like someone receiving something.
He didn’t know what she was receiving.
But he kept watching.
For a long time.
The rain gradually lightened.
From downpour to drizzle, then to a mist so fine it was almost invisible.
A patch of pale golden light broke through the clouds, falling on the wet alley.
Puddles reflected the sky like shattered mirrors, trembling slightly.
Jiang Shoushi lowered her hand.
Her palm was wet.
She didn’t wipe it.
She stood in the doorframe, hands at her sides, droplets falling from her fingertips onto the threshold—one, two, three.
Lin Yinan stepped out from the doorway.
His footsteps splashed through the puddles, water breaking apart and coming back together.
He walked to the cart, picked up the cake from the edge of the iron plate.
The last one.
Its crust had cooled, turned from golden to light brown, edges slightly collapsed—an afternoon that had been forgotten.
But it wasn’t wet.
The rain had come only a palm’s width away, but hadn’t touched it.
Holding that cake, he walked across the alley.
His footsteps splashed through the puddles, one step at a time on the wet road.
Water broke beneath his feet and closed again.
He reached the repair shop entrance.
She was still standing in the doorframe.
He stood outside the threshold.
Between them, the distance of the threshold.
He didn’t step inside.
He stood there, holding the cake out toward her.
Didn’t speak.
Rain dripped from the eaves, the last few drops falling between them.
She didn’t take it.
She looked down at the cake.
The crust had turned from golden to light brown, edges slightly collapsed—an afternoon that had been forgotten.
But it wasn’t wet.
She looked at it for a long time, like she was inspecting a part that should have been checked yesterday.
Then she looked up.
“You added extra water to today’s batter.” “Mm.” She didn’t ask again.
She took the cake.
Her fingertips touched his fingertips.
Very brief.
Shorter than a heartbeat.
Her fingertips were wet.
Rain.
Cool.
His fingertips were dry.
Warm.
He’d been holding the cake; the warmth of it still lingered on his fingers.
After she took the cake, she didn’t bite into it right away.
She held it in her hand, looked down at it for a long time.
Then she put it into the left pocket of her coveralls.
As she put it in, her fingertips lingered on the edge of the paper bag for one extra beat.
Like confirming it had really gone in.
She looked up.
“I can taste it,” she said.
Lin Yinan stood outside the threshold.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool, carrying the smell of earth after rain.
He didn’t answer.
He stood there, hands at his sides.
Wet fingertips.
Dry fingertips.
Both hanging.
After a moment, he said: “Mm.” Then he turned and walked back across the alley.
His footsteps splashed through the puddles, water breaking beneath his feet and closing again.
He didn’t look back.
He walked to the cart, pulled the canvas tarp fully over it, locked the cart—the metal buckles clinked against the iron frame, the sound especially clear in the rain-washed alley.
Then he stood there, looking down at his hands.
Fingertips.
Dry.
But he knew she could tell.
He stood there for a while.
Then he walked into the doorway.
Closed the door.
The lock clicked, echoing in the alley for a moment.
The night swallowed the metallic click.
The sky slowly darkened.
The repair shop’s lights were still on; fluorescent light poured through the half-open shutter, casting a long rectangular patch of brightness on the wet ground.
Jiang Shoushi still stood at the entrance.
She glanced down at the cake in her pocket.
Then she turned and walked back inside the repair shop.
Lights off.
Shutter pulled down.
The metallic click of the lock echoed in the alley for a moment, then the night swallowed it.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool and damp.
Puddles slowly shrank on the road; the sky shifted from iron gray to deep blue, then to a dark blue nearly black.
Oil Seal sat between the repair shop and the cart.
No one knew when it had appeared.
It sat there, tail wrapped around its front paws.
Its fur was dry.
Not centered.
One notch to the left.
But a little closer to the middle than yesterday.
So slightly that no one would notice.
The wind blew, lifting a corner of the cart’s canvas tarp and letting it fall again.
The post-rain wind carried moisture and the smell of earth, flowing slowly through the alley.
Oil Seal’s ear twitched, ever so slightly.
Very soft.
Like saying: “Tomorrow.” End of Chapter 10.