The sky wasn’t fully bright yet.
The wind at the mouth of the alley was a little colder than yesterday, blowing across the asphalt, drying half of the water marks that had pooled in the low spots overnight.
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.
The taro mash was in a steel bowl, covered with a damp cloth, its corner folded neatly inward.
The color had shifted from pale brown to pale purple.
He took it out and set it on the counter.
Then he pulled back the tarp.
The metal buckle clinked against the iron frame, a crisp sound, unusually short in the quiet alley.
He placed the copper molds on the burner.
Lit the flame.
A blue tongue of fire flickered once in the morning light and steadied.
He opened the steel bowl, scooped up a portion of taro mash, and mixed it into the batter.
A purple-white swirl slowly spread across the bowl, the color gradually evening out.
He stopped, poured the batter into the copper molds.
The first taro cake came out of the mold.
Steam rose and lingered a moment longer than usual, white and hazy, slow to disperse in the morning light.
He picked it up with the iron tongs, flipped it over; the bottom was golden brown.
He set it on the right side of the iron plate—not centered, just in an empty spot.
He didn’t write it on the blackboard.
The first customers arrived.
The man in the suit bought two custard ones.
The middle schooler bought one red bean, eating it as he walked, his backpack bouncing behind him.
The mother pushing the stroller bought one custard and one red bean; the baby sat in the stroller, staring at the taro cake on the iron plate, not reaching out, just looking.
Lin Yinan took payment and put the change in the box.
His movements were the same as always.
Sister Meiyun pushed open the breakfast shop’s metal shutter and stepped out.
She wasn’t carrying tea today.
She stood beside the cart and glanced down.
“Taro?” “Mm.” “When did you start?” “Today.” Sister Meiyun didn’t ask again.
She looked at that taro cake for two seconds, then turned and walked back into her shop.
The metal shutter slid down halfway behind her.
Wind came from the mouth of the alley, carrying the smell of taro across the asphalt, across the street.
The repair shop’s metal shutter was already open.
Fluorescent lights were on, their low hum traveling across the street.
Jiang Shoushi stood at the workbench, a wrench in her hand, about to turn a bolt.
Wind came through the doorway, carrying another smell.
Her nose caught it first.
Her fingers paused on the wrench for one beat, then kept turning.
She didn’t look up.
The wrench turned twice.
On the third rotation, it was half a beat slower than the first two.
Then it returned to its normal speed.
Close to noon, a bicycle sound came from the mouth of the alley.
The chain was loose, clattering once per rotation, dry, metal scraping against metal.
The sound was fifteen minutes earlier than usual.
And today there wasn’t just one sound.
There was also a brake sound.
Rubber pads clamping against the wheel rim, a short, sharp squeak, then a stop.
The old man’s bicycle stopped in front of the cart.
He didn’t get off.
One foot was on the ground, the other still on the pedal.
He didn’t speak.
He looked at the taro cake on the iron plate.
Looked for a long time.
So long that Lin Yinan had already poured the second batch of batter, closed the copper mold lid, steam seeping from the edges—only then did the old man speak.
“One.” Lin Yinan picked it up with the tongs.
Paper bag.
Folded the corner.
Handed it over.
The old man took the paper bag but didn’t leave.
He opened it, looked down at the taro cake inside.
Its edge had collapsed slightly, but the overall shape was still round.
He looked up at Lin Yinan.
“I waited twelve days.” Lin Yinan’s hand stopped on the tongs.
He didn’t say “you’re welcome.” Didn’t say “sorry.” Didn’t say “sorry to keep you waiting.” He said nothing.
The old man put the paper bag into the basket on the front of his bicycle, mounted it, and pedaled off.
The chain clattered once, then slowly faded.
The bicycle turned at the mouth of the alley and disappeared around that corner.
Lin Yinan stood behind the cart.
The tongs were still in his hand.
Wind came from the mouth of the alley.
A few taro cakes remained on the iron plate.
The first one had been sold.
Of the ones made later, some had been bought, some still sat there.
Afternoon.
The quietest time in the alley.
The soy milk shop’s metal shutter was pulled down.
The breakfast shop’s lights were off.
Wind came from the mouth of the alley, occasionally lifting a fallen leaf, spinning it a few times on the asphalt, then letting it settle in some corner.
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.
When he got to the third mold, he paused.
He turned his head and glanced at the iron plate.
One taro cake was still there.
Baked in the afternoon.
Its crust had already turned from golden to light brown.
He kept washing.
Evening.
The sky began to darken.
The breakfast shop’s metal shutter was fully down.
The soy milk shop’s steam had long stopped rising.
The garbage truck had come and gone.
The alley held nothing but the wind and occasional patches of yellow light from windows, small blocks scattered across the asphalt.
Lin Yinan was packing up.
The copper molds were washed and placed upside down on the rack.
The steel bowls were stacked, one by one, stored in the bottom of the cart.
He picked up the steel bowl with the taro mash.
He intended to stack it on top of the red bean bowl.
But he didn’t.
He placed the taro bowl beside the sweet potato bowl.
Side by side.
A finger’s width apart.
He looked down at them for a moment.
Didn’t adjust.
He kept stacking the other bowls.
Those two steel bowls—sweet potato and taro—sat side by side.
He pulled down the canvas tarp.
Buckles fastened.
One.
Two.
Wind came from the mouth of the alley; the tarp billowed once, then settled.
He stood beside the cart.
Locked it.
Then he looked up across 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 against metal, very light, carried across the street.
He didn’t walk over.
Wind came from 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.
On the iron plate, one taro cake remained.
The one baked in the afternoon.
No one had bought it.
Its crust had turned from golden to light brown, its edges slightly collapsed.
Oil Seal sat between the cart and the repair shop.
Tail wrapped around its front paws, fur trembling slightly in the evening breeze.
Not centered.
To the left.
But a little closer to the middle than yesterday.
Barely half a finger’s width.
No one would notice.
Wind came from the mouth of the alley.
A corner of the canvas tarp lifted, then fell.
Oil Seal’s ear turned first toward the mouth of the alley—the direction the old man had gone.
Then toward the repair shop—the light was still on.
Its ear twitched, ever so slightly.
Very soft.
The taro cake on the iron plate was still there.
The wind stopped.
The entire alley went dark.
Only the repair shop’s light remained on.
Across the street.
End of Chapter 15.