The sky wasn’t fully bright yet.
The repair shop’s metal shutter was already open.
Jiang Shoushi stood in front of the tool wall.
Her hand rested on a wrench, not yet lifted off.
Outside the window, there was a sound—the faint hiss of the copper molds heating, very soft, like dried wood slowly cracking.
She didn’t turn her head.
Her hand was still on the wrench.
But her ear had already turned toward it.
She hadn’t told it to.
She picked up the 14 mm wrench, crouched down.
The hood was already open, an older car sitting in the center of the repair shop.
She reached in and fitted the wrench over the bolt.
Just as she was about to turn it, a sound came from across the street—the iron tongs touching a copper mold.
Clink.
Very light.
Her hand paused for half a beat.
Half a beat only.
Then she kept turning.
She didn’t count.
She didn’t think about which number that was.
Her ear remembered.
Her heart didn’t know yet.
Sunlight came through the gap, casting a thin strip across the floor.
Dust drifted in the light.
Her hand kept turning.
That clink had already passed.
But her ear was still there.
When the taxi pulled up at the entrance, she was replacing a belt.
The driver got out, didn’t turn off the engine.
He walked to the hood, opened it himself, and leaned against the door: “Boss, the AC isn’t blowing cold.” Jiang Shoushi set down the wrench and walked over.
Checked it.
The compressor belt was loose.
She reached in, pressed the tension, then turned to get a tool.
The driver stood nearby and watched for a while.
He didn’t speak.
Sunlight came through the door, casting a square patch of light on his shoulder.
She turned the screw two full rotations.
He stood there for two rotations’ worth of time.
Then he said: “No question today?” Jiang Shoushi’s hand stopped mid-air.
The wrench was on the bolt, not turning.
The driver: “…I thought you’d definitely ask.” She paused for a moment.
“…In a hurry.” The driver looked at her.
Didn’t say more.
He straightened up, walked back to the driver’s seat, and closed the door.
The engine echoed in the alley for a few seconds, then faded.
Jiang Shoushi kept turning.
That bolt had already been turned three full rotations.
Her hands were steady.
But her ear was still stuck on that sentence: “I thought you’d definitely ask.” She didn’t think about why.
She just kept turning.
Finished, stood up, hung the wrench back on the tool wall.
As she hung it, another sound came from across the street—clink.
Lighter than the first two.
Like the iron tongs sliding off the edge of a copper mold.
Her fingers stopped on the wrench.
Didn’t move.
Then she let go.
Noon.
A female rider came in for an oil change.
She parked her scooter at the repair shop entrance, took off her helmet, and walked in.
Sat in the waiting area, scrolling on her phone.
Jiang Shoushi crouched beside the scooter, loosening the drain plug.
She turned it two rotations, when the rider suddenly stood up and walked to the door.
Didn’t step out.
Just stood in the doorframe, looking across the street.
Watched for a while.
“That boss doesn’t talk much.” Jiang Shoushi’s hand paused.
The oil jug was suspended in midair.
She didn’t look up.
“…He never does.” The rider turned to look at her.
She wasn’t smiling.
Just looked at her, for about two seconds.
Then she sat back down in the waiting area and didn’t press further.
She looked down at her phone.
But the corner of her mouth twitched, not quite a smile.
Jiang Shoushi kept pouring the oil.
The stream was thin, falling into the funnel without splashing.
Her hands were steady.
But her ear was still on that sentence.
On that word.
She’d said “he.” She didn’t know she’d said it.
When the man in the suit walked into the repair shop, the rider was still scrolling on her phone.
He was holding a paper bag, one corner folded down.
He walked up to the workbench: “Oil change.” Jiang Shoushi looked up at him for a second.
Then kept pouring oil.
“Wait a moment.” The rider looked up.
She looked at the man in the suit, then at the paper bag in his hand, then back at him: “…Aren’t you the one who buys red bean cakes every day?” The man in the suit looked at her too: “You are?” The rider: “I come here for oil changes often.
I’ve seen you.” The man in the suit didn’t respond.
He sat down next to the rider.
Two seats, one empty between them.
He opened the paper bag, took out a red bean cake, took a bite, and chewed slowly.
The rider didn’t look at him again.
She looked down at her phone.
But her gaze paused on that bag for a moment.
She didn’t ask why there were three.
Jiang Shoushi finished pouring the oil.
Set the jug back on the shelf.
Stood up, wiped her hands.
Her gaze passed through the repair shop entrance, through the sunlight, and landed across the street.
On the cart’s iron plate—red bean, custard, ginger sweet potato.
And one taro—placed on the inner shelf, not on the iron plate.
Like something that hadn’t yet decided whether to be seen.
She withdrew her gaze.
Looked down, filled out the work order.
Her handwriting was neat.
Date.
License plate.
Repair items.
Every character sat neatly on the page.
Outside the window.
The second clink had already passed.
Her hand didn’t stop.
Evening.
The sky was just beginning to darken.
Jiang Shoushi was tightening the last bolt.
The wrench turned one full rotation, then another.
Third rotation.
From across the street came—clink.
Very light.
Lighter than the first two.
Like the iron tongs had gently touched the edge of a copper mold, and then nothing more.
Then the alley fell quiet for a few seconds.
The sound of water stopped.
There was no more sound from the cart.
She set down the wrench.
Didn’t hang it back on the tool wall.
She held it in her hand, stood up, and walked to the door.
She stood in the doorframe.
Didn’t step out.
The white cloth hung from the iron hook.
Folded into four, edges a little stained.
Yesterday it had been empty.
Now it was there.
Then she looked across the street.
The cart was being packed up.
The canvas tarp was half-covering it.
Lin Yinan stood beside the cart, washing the copper molds.
The water was loud.
He washed three.
She’d never counted before.
She didn’t know when she’d started.
Oil Seal sat between the cart and the repair shop.
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.
Tail wrapped around its front paws.
Ears toward the repair shop.
Didn’t meow.
Just sat.
Wind came through the mouth of the alley, very light.
Her ear was still listening.
But she wasn’t waiting for a fourth clink.
Her hand had already relaxed.
She stood in the doorframe.
She didn’t know why she was standing there.
But her body already knew—there wouldn’t be another one today.
She looked down.
Saw the wrench still in her hand.
She didn’t remember picking it up.
She walked back to the tool wall and hung it up.
14 mm.
As she hung it, her fingertips lingered on the metal for one extra beat.
Then she walked back to the workbench and sat down.
The light outside the window had darkened.
Her gaze swept over the iron hook—the white cloth was still there.
She didn’t think, “It wasn’t there yesterday.” She just looked at it.
Then looked down and kept filling out the form.
Her handwriting was still neat.
But she stopped halfway through.
The pen tip rested on the paper, ink slowly bleeding into a small dot.
She looked at that dot.
Didn’t think about anything.
Then she kept writing.
She hadn’t noticed yet.
But her body already knew.
Tomorrow.
That clink would come.
Outside the window.
The repair shop’s light was still on.
The wind in the alley had stopped.
The white cloth hung there.
Oil Seal sat there.
Ears toward tomorrow.