The sky wasn’t fully bright yet.
The rain had stopped.
On the asphalt, there was still a shallow sheen of water, like a mirror that had just been wiped and wasn’t quite dry.
The sky at the mouth of the alley shifted from iron gray to pale blue, the color very light, like a piece of washed cloth slowly drying in the air.
Lin Yinan walked to the cart and reached for the edge of the canvas tarp.
His hand gripped a little to the right of where it usually did.
He didn’t notice.
But his hand paused there for half a second, as if confirming something, before he pulled it back.
The tarp slid off the copper molds; the metal buckle clinked against the iron frame.
The sound was shorter than usual, like a sentence cut off halfway.
He folded the tarp and placed it on the inner shelf of the cart.
Then he opened the fridge.
Cold air hit his face.
The ginger was still there, the sweet potatoes still there, the wire ring still there.
Next to them sat a taro—he’d picked it up at the market a few days ago, but only noticed it now.
Oval-shaped, with a little dried earth still clinging to the skin.
He didn’t move it.
He closed the fridge door.
Then he walked to the side of the cart.
The iron hook was still there.
Its tip was slightly bent inward, about two degrees straighter than yesterday.
He looked at it.
Didn’t touch.
Then he turned and reached for the steel mixing bowl.
Oil Seal sat on the awning.
Positioned to the left, but a little closer to the center than yesterday—barely half a finger’s width.
So slight that no one would notice.
Its fur was dry, tail tucked under its front paws, like a lump of butter not yet starting to melt.
No one knew when it had arrived.
Its eyes were half-closed, ears turned toward the repair shop for a moment, then still.
Lin Yinan set the steel bowl on the rack.
Flour poured in, white dust rising, floating in the morning light for a moment before settling.
Water added slowly, his wrist turning, batter spreading evenly across the bottom of the bowl.
As he poured the water, he added about half a scoop more than usual.
Not from the measuring cup.
His hand added it on its own, stopping at a certain point.
He didn’t pause to think why.
He just kept stirring.
The batter shifted from powdery white to pale beige, the surface gradually smoothing, no bubbles.
He set down the whisk, covered the bowl with a damp cloth.
Then he placed the copper molds on the burner and lit the flame.
A blue tongue of fire flickered once and steadied; the bottom of the copper molds began to emit a faint heating sound, like dried wood slowly cracking.
Sister Meiyun pushed open the breakfast shop’s metal shutter and stepped out.
She held her tea, stood beside the cart for a moment, and said nothing.
She glanced across the alley—the repair shop’s metal shutter was still down, the fluorescent lights off, the inside dark.
“Not open across the street yet?” “Mm.” Lin Yinan was pouring batter, not looking up.
His wrist was steady, the batter flowing into the round molds at an even speed, like a thin thread.
But when Sister Meiyun spoke, his hand paused—less than half a second—then continued pouring.
Sister Meiyun didn’t press.
She raised her tea and took a sip, then turned and walked back into her shop.
The metal shutter slid halfway down behind her.
The first batch came out.
Lin Yinan lifted the copper mold lid; white steam billowed out, carrying the smell of flour and red bean.
With the iron tongs, he placed six cakes onto the iron plate—golden brown, edges slightly crisp, each one puffed just right.
He set down the tongs and turned to prepare the second batch.
From beginning to end, he didn’t look at the repair shop.
But he heard it.
From across the alley came the sound of a metal shutter rolling up—metal sliding against the track, about twenty minutes later than usual.
He didn’t look up.
The batter continued pouring into the copper molds.
Then the fluorescent lights came on, a low hum traveling across the alley, like the breath of another world.
Then the sound of a wrench.
Very light, from inside the repair shop.
An iron wrench touching a metal part, carried across the alley, like raindrops falling on a tin roof.
He was flipping a cake; the handle of the tongs stopped in midair.
That rhythm was half a beat slower than the previous days.
Not noticeably slow.
Not a pause.
Just the gap between each sound—slightly longer than before.
Like a person’s breath deepening without them knowing.
He kept flipping.
Didn’t look up.
The man in the suit arrived.
He stopped in front of the cart, glanced at the menu—red bean, custard.
Same as always.
“Two custard.” Lin Yinan picked, bagged, took payment.
Movements the same as always.
But the man in the suit didn’t leave immediately after taking the paper bag.
He stood there, looking at Lin Yinan.
“You seem earlier today.” Lin Yinan’s hand stopped in midair.
Less than a second.
“…No.” “Is that so.” The man didn’t say more.
He put the paper bag into his suit pocket, turned, and walked out of the alley.
His leather shoes made steady footsteps on the asphalt, gradually fading.
Lin Yinan stood there, still holding the tongs.
He didn’t know what “earlier” meant.
He had opened his stall at the same time today as yesterday.
But he didn’t turn back to check.
He set down the tongs and turned to pour a new batch of batter.
Oil Seal’s ear twitched.
Throughout the morning, his hand passed the iron hook three times.
The first time was while pouring batter.
His elbow brushed past the side hook—empty, nothing hanging.
He didn’t stop.
The batter continued pouring into the copper mold, the rhythm of his wrist unchanged.
But the extra half scoop of water he’d added while mixing the batter—he didn’t know why.
His hand had simply added it.
His hand remembered some things before his heart did.
The second time was while flipping cakes.
The handle of the iron tongs tapped the iron hook.
Clink—a very fine sound, like a small piece of metal falling on tile.
He paused.
He didn’t look at the hook.
He looked up, glanced at the canvas tarp.
It was folded and placed on the inner shelf, creases neat.
But he wasn’t looking at the tarp itself.
He was looking at where the tarp had billowed up when the wind blew through yesterday.
Yesterday, wind had poured in from the mouth of the alley, filling the tarp like a full sail.
He couldn’t hold it alone.
Then another hand had reached from across the way, gripping the other corner of the tarp.
No words, no look at him.
Just gripped it.
And together they pulled it down.
Her fingertips had rain on them.
Cool.
He remembered.
He hadn’t seen her push the iron hook, but he knew she had—because this morning, when he touched it, it was two degrees straighter than yesterday.
He looked at the tarp for about two seconds.
Then lowered his head and continued flipping.
The iron tongs gripped the edge of the copper mold again, turned, turned again—smooth and continuous.
Oil Seal sat on the awning, watching him.
Its position hadn’t changed.
But its head had turned toward the repair shop, ears pricked in that direction, as if listening for something.
Lin Yinan didn’t look at it.
He kept flipping.
The third time wasn’t while flipping cakes.
It was in the afternoon.
But between the second and third times, a few other things happened.
The middle schooler arrived.
Backpack bouncing behind him, zipper half-open, a textbook peeking out from the gap.
He stopped in front of the cart, glanced at the iron plate—red bean, custard, ginger sweet potato.
“One red bean.” Lin Yinan picked one.
As he was bagging it, the middle schooler looked at the iron plate again, then shifted his gaze inward.
“Got taro today?” Lin Yinan’s hand stopped on the paper bag.
Less than a second.
“…Yes.” He set down the red bean cake, turned, and opened the fridge.
The taro mash was in a steel bowl, covered with a damp cloth, its color shifting from pale brown to pale purple.
He scooped out a portion and placed it into the copper mold.
His movements were neither fast nor slow, like something he’d done many times before.
“Then I’ll take taro.” “It’s the first day.” The middle schooler took the paper bag and didn’t ask further.
He bit into it, cheeks puffed, mumbled something Lin Yinan didn’t catch.
The kid walked off, backpack bouncing twice behind him, then disappeared around the corner of the alley.
Lin Yinan stood behind the cart, still holding the tongs.
He hadn’t written “taro” on the blackboard.
He’d just kept a taro in the fridge for several days, steamed and mashed it yesterday.
He hadn’t decided when to sell it.
Today the kid asked, so he sold it.
The old man cycled past.
He didn’t stop.
But he slowed down—slower than before, so slow he nearly came to a halt.
He glanced at the iron plate—red bean, custard, ginger sweet potato.
Then his gaze shifted inward.
There, a taro cake sat, not placed on the iron plate, not written on the blackboard.
He didn’t stop.
His foot pressed the pedal once, and the bicycle continued gliding forward, past the cart, past the mouth of the alley, turned, and disappeared.
Lin Yinan watched his retreating back.
He had waited eleven times.
This was the twelfth.
He didn’t stop.
But he saw it.
He saw the taro cake placed on the inner shelf, not displayed.
He saw it, then pedaled away.
That was enough.
She didn’t walk out today.
But the sound of the wrench continued.
Lin Yinan didn’t look up.
Afternoon.
Sister Meiyun walked out with her empty teacup.
She stood beside the cart for a moment, glanced at the side hook—empty.
Then looked at the white cloth hanging on the inner rod of the cart, folded into four, edges a little stained, used for months.
“Are you changing where you hang it today?” Lin Yinan was washing the copper molds, not looking up.
“…Don’t know.” Sister Meiyun didn’t press.
She raised her empty cup and took a sip, as if drinking something still steaming.
Then she turned and walked back into the breakfast shop.
Evening.
Lin Yinan washed the copper molds clean and set them upside down on the rack.
The steel bowls were stacked, the batter bucket covered and put in the fridge.
The change box went into the drawer.
He stood beside the cart, holding the white cloth in his hand—wet, folded into four, the stains at the edges slightly faded from the water.
He walked to the side.
Hung it from the iron hook.
After hanging it, his hand didn’t let go.
Not touching.
Just the weight still there.
He could feel the angle of the iron hook—about two degrees straighter than yesterday.
Her fingertips had pushed here.
Yesterday evening, before the rain fell, she’d crossed from the other side, hand reaching over, fingertips pushing against the base of the hook, inward, gently, like adjusting the tolerance on a part.
Rainwater dripped from her fingertips onto the iron hook, sliding along the hook’s body, falling onto the asphalt, a small round spot, quickly dried.
He hadn’t seen her push it.
He only remembered that when she withdrew her hand, her fingertips had beads of water on them.
Now the hook was a little straighter.
His hand knew.
His fingers paused on the hook for one beat, as if confirming something—not with his eyes, but with his fingertips.
Then he let go.
Turned and reached for the tarp.
Wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool, carrying the dampness of evening.
The tarp billowed slightly, as if about to lift.
He reached out and gripped one corner, pulled tight.
This time it didn’t pull back.
He pulled it down himself.
Buckles fastened, one on each side, crisp, short.
He stood up straight.
Sister Meiyun walked out of the breakfast shop, empty cup in hand, and stood beside the cart for a moment.
She glanced at the side hook—the white cloth hanging from it.
“The cloth changed places today?” Lin Yinan paused.
He turned.
Looked at the cloth.
White, folded into four, hanging from the iron hook.
That hook had never held anything before.
This morning when he left, he’d still had the cloth on the inner rod.
Now it was there.
He truly hadn’t decided to change its place.
He’d just hung it there.
His hand had hung it; his heart hadn’t decided.
“…Mm.” “Where did you hang it before?” “On the rod.” “And now?” Lin Yinan didn’t answer.
Sister Meiyun raised her empty cup and took a sip.
“Nothing wrong with that.” She said.
Then she turned and walked back into her shop.
The metal shutter slid down behind her, the sound of scraping metal dragging long through the alley before falling quiet.
Lin Yinan stood beside the cart.
Wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool, carrying the dampness of evening.
The cloth on the side hook swayed gently.
Didn’t fall.
He watched it for a while.
Then he turned and walked into the deeper part of the alley.
The night swallowed his footsteps.
The repair shop’s lights were still on.
The metal shutter was half-open, fluorescent light spilling through the gap, casting a long bright strip across the asphalt.
No one walked out.
The sound of the wrench had stopped.
The light on the workbench was still on, illuminating a few things on the surface—an empty paper bag, its corner folded, the kind he used for his cakes.
Beside it lay a rusty washer, round, a ring of dark rust around its edge.
Side by side, a finger’s width apart.
Next to that, a white cup, clean, with no water inside.
No one walked out.
But Oil Seal sat on the cart’s awning.
Positioned to the left, but a little closer to the center than yesterday—barely half a finger’s width.
So slight that no one would notice.
Its ears turned toward the repair shop for a moment.
Didn’t move.
Wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool.
The cloth on the side hook swayed gently.
Didn’t fall.
The wind stopped.
The cloth stopped too.
Hanging there.
It would still be there.
Tomorrow.
End of Chapter 12.