Around noon, the sky changed.
The wind came first.
It poured in from the mouth of the alley, snapping the cart’s canvas tarp like a drum.
Lin Yinan was flipping a cake; his tongs stopped mid-air.
He looked up at the sky.
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 lifted fallen leaves and spun them in circles on the pavement.
He set down the tongs.
He started packing up.
The batter bowl was covered with a damp cloth and put in the fridge.
The change box went into the drawer.
Three cakes remained on the iron plate; he put them in a paper bag and placed it on the inner shelf of the cart.
His movements were quick as always, but not hurried.
He’d done this many times.
Then he walked to the side of the cart and reached for the canvas tarp.
The tarp was large, covering the entire cart.
Usually he did it alone.
Left corner first, then right, then buckled each buckle one by one.
When the wind was strong, it took more effort.
But he could manage it.
It just took a little more time.
He pulled the tarp down from the top of the frame.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley just then, filling the tarp like a full sail.
It billowed and pulled him back a step.
He steadied himself, gripped the edge of the tarp, and tried to fasten the first buckle.
The wind came again.
Stronger than before.
The tarp shuddered in his hands, slipped from his fingers, and flipped up like a wing suddenly unfolding.
He reached for it and caught only a corner.
Wind rushed under the tarp, rattling the iron plate on the cart with a very light clang.
He heard footsteps.
Not wind.
Footsteps.
The interval between each step almost the same.
He didn’t turn.
He kept pulling the tarp, but the wind came again, the edge slipping from his grip.
The buckle clinked against the iron frame, a sharp sound.
Then another hand reached in.
From across the way.
Gripping the other corner of the tarp.
He turned.
Jiang Shoushi stood beside the cart.
He hadn’t heard her cross the alley.
She stood there, holding the right corner of the tarp, her palm pressing the edge flat.
The wind snapped the tarp by her hand, but she wasn’t pulled.
She stood steady, like someone used to bracing against the weight of an engine.
She didn’t look at him.
“Left.” Lin Yinan looked at her.
Then looked down at his own hands.
He held the left corner.
She held the right.
Between them, the width of the tarp.
The wind still blew, the canvas arching between them like a sail not yet lowered.
He didn’t ask why she’d come.
He didn’t say “I’ve got it.” He pulled the tarp straight and guided it toward the cart.
She followed his rhythm, pulling the canvas flat and even.
Their movements weren’t coordinated aloud.
But they were synchronized.
The wind came again.
The tarp bellied between them.
Her hand didn’t let go.
Neither did his.
“Right.” She said.
He moved one step to the right.
The angle of the tarp was right.
The wind slid over without catching underneath.
They pulled the canvas down together.
The tarp covered the cart.
Buckles clinked against the iron frame twice.
The first was his.
The second was hers.
She fastened the right buckle.
He fastened the left.
The wind still blew.
But the tarp was secure, its edges tucked in flat, no corner lifting.
Lin Yinan stood beside the cart, his hand still on the buckle he’d just fastened.
He didn’t let go.
The rain came.
The first drop landed on the step in front of him.
Loud.
Like a period.
The second hit the metal shelf at the repair shop entrance with a sharp clang.
Then, within seconds, the rain fell in sheets.
Like a wall dropping from the sky, covering the entire alley.
Water poured from the edges of the eaves, forming curtains.
She was still standing there.
Rain struck her hair, streaming down the strands onto her shoulders.
She didn’t step back.
Her gaze fell on the side of the cart beside him.
The slightly bent hook.
“The hook is bent.” She said.
He looked down at the hook.
Bent.
About five degrees.
It had been bent since the first day he set up the cart.
He’d never fixed it.
“Mm.” He answered.
She didn’t say more.
She stepped forward, closer to the edge of the cart.
Reached out.
Her fingers touched the iron hook.
She pushed it inward.
Just a gentle push.
No tools, no calibration, just her fingers, straightening it a little.
About two degrees.
Still bent.
But less so.
She pulled her hand back.
Raindrops fell from her fingertips.
He noticed her fingers for the first time.
Knuckles faintly red, calluses on the tips, like someone who’d held tools for a long time.
Now her hands held nothing.
She didn’t look at him.
She turned and walked back inside.
Her footsteps splashed through puddles, water breaking and coming back together.
She walked through the doorway.
Didn’t close it.
Fluorescent light was on.
Rain streamed from the eaves, forming a curtain between them, wetting his shoulder and the back of his neck.
He looked down at the hook.
The one she’d pushed.
Rain ran along it, gathered at the tip into a single drop, hung there for a moment, then fell.
He stood in the doorway.
Didn’t go inside.
Through the rain, the repair shop’s fluorescent light was diffused into a blurry warm yellow.
Inside the repair shop.
Jiang Shoushi stood in front of the workbench.
Her hair was soaked.
The shoulders of her coveralls were dark with rain.
Water ran down her neck into her collar.
She didn’t wipe it.
She stood there, looking down at her hands.
Her fingertips still held the feel of the iron hook.
The temperature of the metal, the slickness of rainwater, the slight off-angle.
She walked into the storeroom for a dry cloth.
When she came back, she didn’t wipe her hair.
She wiped the workbench.
Left to right.
One, two, three wipes.
She dried every trace of moisture from the surface.
Then she hung the cloth over the edge of the sink.
She stood there.
Rain still fell outside the window.
The glass was streaked with water, blurring the shape of the alley.
A long time.
The sky slowly darkened.
The rain eased from downpour to drizzle, then to a mist so fine it was nearly invisible.
The sky shifted from iron gray to deep blue, then to a dark blue almost black.
Puddles in the alley slowly shrank.
Wind carried the remaining mist along the ground.
The repair shop light was still on.
The cart’s canvas tarp was flat and neat.
Oil Seal sat beneath the cart.
Its fur was dry.
No one knew when it had appeared.
It sat there, tail wrapped around its front paws, facing the repair shop.
Not centered.
One notch to the left.
But a little closer to the middle than yesterday.
Just a little.
Puddles reflected the repair shop light, scattered into small shards of brightness.
Oil Seal’s ear twitched toward the repair shop.
Then it stood up, walked back to the awning, and sat down.
Like a lump of butter not yet starting to melt.
Tomorrow.
End of Chapter 11.