The sky wasn’t fully bright yet.
The wind in the alley had just stopped.
On the asphalt, there was still a thin layer of water—the last trace of the heavy rain from a few days before, like a mirror not yet fully dry, holding the dark blue sky in fragments.
Lin Yinan walked to the cart.
He didn’t pull back the canvas tarp first.
He opened the fridge.
Cold air rushed into his face, carrying the mixed smell of overnight flour and red bean paste—cool, like a morning that hadn’t quite woken up.
His gaze swept across the interior— Ginger.
Beside the steel bowl on the top shelf, its cut surface already dry, edges slightly curled inward, turning a deep brown, like a date no longer needing to be remembered.
Sweet potato.
Second shelf, covered with a damp cloth, the corner folded neatly, the way he’d tucked it in himself when he closed up yesterday.
Wire ring.
Bottom corner.
Silver, blending with the cold light of the fridge wall, like something that had fallen in by accident and stayed for a long time.
All still there.
Then his hand reached toward the very back.
His fingertips touched something rough—dry skin, a slightly sandy texture.
He paused.
Not a flour bag.
Not a steel bowl.
Not a damp cloth.
He pulled it out.
A taro.
Not large, oval-shaped, its skin still clinging to a little dried earth, as if it had been casually dropped into a basket from some corner of the market, then followed him all the way through the alley, through the evening wind, back here.
He held it, turned it over.
On the bottom was a shallow scratch—like something had lightly grazed it, now dry, the edges faintly pale.
He looked at that mark for a while, trying to remember how it got there.
He couldn’t.
Had he bought a taro?
It seemed so.
When?
He didn’t know.
He stood there for a while.
The fridge light lit his face; cold air spilled out from the opening, climbing up his wrist, cool.
His fingers held the taro, its rough skin pressed against his palm.
He put it back, beside the wire ring, leaving a finger’s width of space between them.
Then he closed the fridge door.
Click.
Very soft.
In the quiet alley, like a period.
He stood there, his hand still on the door handle.
The door was closed.
But now he knew there were four things inside.
He lowered his hand.
Turned and pulled back the canvas tarp.
The metal buckles clinked against the iron frame, louder than usual in the silence.
The soy milk shop hadn’t yet sent up steam.
The breakfast shop’s metal shutter was still closed.
The whole street was like a sheet of paper not yet written on—clean, blank, waiting for the first stroke to fall.
He lit the burner, poured the batter.
His movements were as steady as always, the rhythm of his wrist unchanged.
But as he flipped the cakes, his peripheral vision swept past the fridge door.
Closed.
Nothing different.
He pulled his gaze back.
Continued flipping.
When the old man’s bicycle appeared, Lin Yinan was flipping the first batch.
The chain sound came from the mouth of the alley.
He recognized it.
He’d heard it for eleven mornings now.
Loose, clattering, with a dry metallic rasp, like a bike that had been ridden for a long time, every part already accustomed to the others.
But today the sound was a little slower than usual.
Not noticeably slower.
No pause, no hesitation.
Just the interval between each rotation of the chain was slightly longer than before—so slight it would barely be noticed.
So slight that only someone who had heard it eleven times could tell.
Lin Yinan didn’t look up.
He was using the iron tongs to flip the second cake; the crust made a very faint hiss in the copper mold, white steam rising, carrying the smell of flour and red bean.
He heard the slowness.
The bicycle passed in front of the cart.
No brake sound.
No “Got taro today?” Just rode past, its tire pressing over a slightly raised patch of asphalt, making a dull thud, then continuing forward.
Slower.
But didn’t stop.
The tongs continued flipping.
Lin Yinan’s hands didn’t stop.
But he knew.
He didn’t call out to the old man.
Wind came from the mouth of the alley, carrying the heat from the copper molds toward him, warm, with the scent of baked flour.
The bicycle sound was still there, turning at the corner of the alley; the chain’s clatter was drawn out by the wind, like a thread slowly pulled away, farther and farther, then breaking off.
Lin Yinan straightened up.
The tongs were still in his hand.
He glanced at the fridge.
Door closed.
But he knew there was taro inside.
The sun rose.
The light in the alley shifted from pale gray to pale gold.
Sister Meiyun’s breakfast shop metal shutter opened a crack, and from inside came the clatter of bowls and plates—fine, scattered, like someone still half-asleep rummaging for something.
Lin Yinan was pouring a new batch of batter.
The measuring cup tilted, droplets of water slowly sliding down the cup wall, falling into the flour, kicking up a small puff of white dust that floated in the morning light for a moment before settling.
Someone was standing in front of the cart.
He looked up.
Granny.
She was wearing a gray-blue jacket today, its collar neatly turned.
Her hair was whiter than last time, catching the morning light.
She didn’t, as usual, look down at the cakes on the iron plate, didn’t say “I’ll take one red bean” or “Do you have ginger today?” She just stood there, her right hand resting on the edge of the cart, fingertips pressing lightly, like someone who had walked a distance and stopped to rest.
Lin Yinan’s measuring cup was still suspended in midair.
The water had already been poured; a few drops lingered at the cup’s rim, not yet falling.
He looked at her.
“Thank you for pushing me home yesterday.” One sentence.
Nothing more.
Her voice wasn’t loud.
In the morning alley, it was like a leaf falling into water.
She didn’t wait for his answer.
She just set the words down, like setting a cup of water on the table, then turned and walked away.
Lin Yinan watched her.
His lips moved, but no sound came out.
He nodded.
Granny nodded too.
Then she turned and walked away.
She didn’t buy a cake.
Didn’t linger a second longer.
Her steps weren’t fast, but each was steady, stepping on the asphalt, her gray-blue jacket shifting slightly on her shoulders.
Wind came from the mouth of the alley, lifting the hem of her jacket once, then letting it fall.
Lin Yinan watched her back recede until she turned into the deeper part of the alley, the gray-blue disappearing around the corner.
He looked down at the measuring cup in his hand.
He didn’t know when he’d set it down.
He continued pouring batter.
Noon.
The sun rose above the alley, shortening the cart’s shadow to a stub.
The street grew quieter.
The soy milk shop’s steam had stopped rising.
The breakfast shop’s metal shutter was half pulled down.
The alley held nothing but the wind, occasionally blowing a fallen leaf from the mouth of the alley, spinning it a few times on the asphalt, then letting it settle in some corner.
A female rider on a white scooter pulled up at the repair shop entrance.
She took off her helmet, pushed down her flattened hair, and was about to walk inside when the man in the suit happened to come from the mouth of the alley.
He was holding a brown paper bag, one corner folded down, bulging slightly, the outline of cakes visible through the paper.
The two arrived at the entrance at almost the same time.
The rider recognized him.
That man, who passed through the alley every day, bought two custard ones, and ate them as he walked.
She glanced at him.
Her gaze moved from his face to the paper bag, then back.
“You bought three today?” The man in the suit looked back at her.
He recognized her too.
The white scooter, parked here a few days ago.
“Mm.” The rider didn’t ask why.
She stood there, waiting for him to pass.
The man in the suit also stood there, as if thinking of something to say.
The paper bag in his hand swayed slightly in the wind; the folded corner lifted a little, then fell back.
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
In the end, he said nothing.
He held the paper bag and walked toward the mouth of the alley.
His leather shoes made a steady rhythm on the asphalt, each step spaced about the same, like someone who had walked this road many times.
The rider stood where she was.
She watched his back for a few steps.
Then she turned and walked into the repair shop.
Didn’t look back.
Lin Yinan saw this from behind the cart.
He was placing a freshly baked cake onto the iron plate with the tongs; the tongs touched the edge of the copper mold, making a very light clink.
He didn’t stop.
But he knew—that man bought two every day.
Today, three.
He didn’t know why.
No one asked.
He continued placing the cakes.
Afternoon.
The quietest time of day.
The soy milk shop’s metal shutter was down.
The breakfast shop’s lights were off.
The alley held nothing but the wind and the very faint sound of the copper molds contracting as they cooled—thin, like metal slowly breathing.
No one moved on the street.
Lin Yinan was washing the copper molds.
Water splashed loudly, hot water hitting the metal surface, white steam rising, turning into translucent threads in the afternoon sunlight.
His fingers circled the inner wall of the mold, wiping away every trace of batter and scorch.
Finished one, turned it upside down on the rack.
Next one.
He washed carefully, like doing something that required no thought.
When he got to the third mold, he paused.
He set it down, wiped his hands, and walked to the fridge.
Opened it.
Cold air rushed out.
His gaze swept across—ginger, sweet potato, wire ring, and then the taro.
Still there.
Same position as in the morning, side by side with the wire ring, a finger’s width apart.
He took it out.
No particular reason.
He just took it out.
Placed it on the counter.
Didn’t peel it.
Didn’t wash it.
Didn’t steam it.
Just set it there.
Oval-shaped, with dried earth clinging, a shallow scratch on the bottom, like something that didn’t yet know what it would become.
He stood there looking at it for a while.
Then he turned to wash the steel bowl.
The sound of water started again, flowing through his fingers, sliding along the bowl’s rim, down into the sink drain, swirling a small circle, then disappearing.
He washed carefully.
Every inch of the bowl’s inner wall was wiped.
The water stains at the edges dried with a cloth.
After he finished, he turned it over and placed it upside down on the drying rack.
His hand paused on the rack’s edge for a moment.
Then he returned to the counter.
The taro was still there.
Sunlight fell on its rough surface, illuminating the dried earth particles and the shallow scratch clearly.
That mark on the bottom was still the same as in the morning—faint, like something had grazed it during transport.
He looked at it for a long time.
Then he reached out, picked it up, and put it back in the fridge.
Beside the wire ring.
Still a finger’s width between them.
He closed the fridge door.
His fingers lingered on the handle for one extra beat.
Not hesitation.
Just a small pause, like someone walking along who suddenly stops, looks back at the road they’ve just walked, then continues forward.
He turned back to the copper molds.
Continued washing.
Evening.
The street began to darken.
The breakfast shop’s metal shutter was fully down.
The soy milk shop’s steam had stopped rising.
The garbage truck had come and gone.
The alley held nothing but the wind and an occasional patch of light from a window—yellow, soft, like a small piece of daytime left behind in the dark blue air.
Lin Yinan was packing up.
The copper molds were washed and placed upside down on the rack.
The steel bowls were stacked.
The change box was closed and slid into the drawer.
He pulled the canvas tarp down from the top of the cart; wind poured in from the mouth of the alley, puffing the tarp like a sail not yet full.
He reached out, gripped the edge, pulled it taut, fastened the buckles.
One.
Two.
The metallic clinks echoed in the alley for a moment, then faded.
On the side hook, the white cloth was still hanging.
Folded into four, edges slightly yellowed from days of use.
When the wind blew, the cloth swayed, but didn’t fall.
He stood beside the cart, locked it.
Then he looked up at the other side of the alley.
The repair shop’s lights were still on; fluorescent light spilled through the half-open metal shutter, casting a long bright strip across the asphalt.
Inside, he could faintly hear the clatter of a wrench—very light, carried across the alley like raindrops on a tin roof.
He stood there, not walking over.
Wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool, lifting the hem of his shirt once, then letting it fall.
He stood for one beat.
Then he turned and walked into the deeper part of the alley.
The night swallowed his footsteps.
Inside the fridge.
Ginger.
Sweet potato.
Wire ring.
And taro.
Four things.
Without a single explanation.
On the side hook, the white cloth still hung.
Across the alley, the repair shop’s light was still on.
Oil Seal sat between the cart and the repair shop.
No one knew when it had appeared.
It sat there, tail wrapped around its front paws, its fur trembling slightly in the evening breeze.
Not centered.
To the left.
But a little closer to the middle than yesterday.
Its ear twitched toward the deeper part of the alley—the direction Lin Yinan had disappeared into.
Then it turned back, toward the repair shop’s light.
Wind came through the mouth of the alley, lifting a corner of the cart’s canvas tarp and letting it fall again.
Its ear twitched, ever so slightly.
Very soft.
Like saying: “There’s one more thing in the fridge.” No one heard.
But it was a little closer to the center than yesterday—barely half a finger’s width.
End of Chapter 14.