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 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, the corner folded neatly inward.
The color had shifted from pale brown to pale purple.
He took it out and set it on the counter.
A ring of pale purple clung to the bowl’s rim, dried into a fine powder—like a thin layer of frost.
He didn’t wipe it off.
The masher was still in the sink.
He’d washed it last night, but a little purple mash remained in the holes, dried into tiny hard lumps, like small forgotten seeds.
He looked at it.
Didn’t wash it again.
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 in the center.
Just where the space was.
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.
Wind came through the mouth of the alley, carrying the smell of taro across the asphalt, across the street, through the repair shop’s half-open metal shutter.
Jiang Shoushi was crouched in front of the engine hood, a wrench in her hand.
Her nose caught it first.
Her fingers paused on the wrench.
Didn’t turn.
The wind stopped.
The smell faded.
She kept turning.
The wrench turned two rotations.
On the third rotation, it was half a beat slower than the first two.
Then it returned to its normal speed.
The apprentice poked his head in from the doorway: “Boss, they have taro across the street today.” Jiang Shoushi didn’t look up.
“I know.” The apprentice pulled his head back and crouched down by the door to keep removing a tire.
After a few seconds, he heard his boss’s wrench start turning again—three clicks, the rhythm the same as before.
But he had the feeling it was half a beat slower than before.
He didn’t ask.
He kept his head down and continued removing the tire.
Across the alley, Lin Yinan was pouring a fresh batch of batter.
The batter fell into the copper molds, soft, like rain falling on dry earth.
But after he finished pouring, he stood up and looked toward the repair shop.
About two seconds.
Then he kept flipping.
Close to noon, a bicycle sound came from the mouth of the alley.
The chain was tighter than before—fixed yesterday, no longer loose, no longer clattering.
Today there was only the sound of tires rolling over asphalt, dry.
The old man didn’t stop.
Didn’t slow down.
He rode past.
As he passed the cart, he glanced at the taro cake on the iron plate.
Didn’t stop.
Didn’t ask.
Lin Yinan was flipping a cake.
His hands didn’t stop.
But he heard the footsteps fade.
He found himself waiting for that question: “Got taro today?” He didn’t get it.
Wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool, lifting his hair from his forehead.
He picked up the finished cake with the tongs and set it on the iron plate.
Sister Meiyun walked out with her empty teacup.
She stood beside the cart for a moment, not looking at the iron plate.
She looked first toward the mouth of the alley—the direction the old man had disappeared in.
“He didn’t ask today.” Lin Yinan didn’t look up.
“Mm.” Sister Meiyun didn’t press.
She looked down at the stopwatch in her apron pocket.
Took it out.
Pressed it.
Nothing happened.
She pressed it again.
The display stayed on “00:00:00.” She looked at it for a few seconds, then put it back in her pocket.
“Don’t know when it broke,” she said.
She walked back into the breakfast shop, the metal shutter sliding halfway down behind her.
Around noon, the street grew quieter.
Sunlight came from directly overhead, shortening the cart’s shadow until it nearly disappeared under the wheels.
Lin Yinan was washing the steel bowls.
Water splashed loudly, hot water hitting the metal surface, white steam rising, turning into translucent threads in the afternoon sunlight.
When he reached the third bowl, he paused.
He turned his head and glanced at the iron plate.
One taro cake from the afternoon batch was still there.
Its crust had already turned from golden to light brown.
No one had bought it.
He didn’t pick it up.
He kept washing.
Afternoon.
Sunlight slanted into the alley, cutting the repair shop floor into two halves.
The apprentice was crouched by the entrance, removing a tire.
Halfway through, he looked up to wipe sweat from his forehead.
The man in the suit was sitting in the waiting area.
Alone.
Three paper bags.
The apprentice noticed something.
This time, the man had chosen a different seat—the one the female rider had sat in last time.
Between him and the empty seat beside him, there was still one empty space.
But this time he sat on the side where the female rider had sat.
The apprentice looked down and kept removing the tire.
He figured it had nothing to do with him.
When Granny passed by, Lin Yinan was pouring a fresh batch of batter.
She walked slowly, leaning on an umbrella handle—no rain, but she still carried it.
She stopped in front of the cart, glanced at the iron plate, then at the bowl of sweet potato mash on the counter.
“It’s colder today,” she said.
Her shoulders were slightly hunched, her fingers wrapped around the umbrella handle, her knuckles slightly whitened.
When she took the cake, her movements were slower than usual—her fingers lingered on the edge of the paper bag for one extra beat before she gripped it.
She didn’t say she was cold.
But she held the paper bag between both hands, like she was warming herself.
Lin Yinan didn’t ask.
He watched her hold the ginger sweet potato bag between her hands for a while before she put it in her pocket.
“Thank you for pushing me home yesterday,” she said.
Then she turned and walked away.
Her steps were a little faster than when she’d come.
He didn’t say “you’re welcome.” Wind came through the mouth of the alley, carrying the smell of taro that still lingered.
He poured a fresh batch of batter into the copper molds, the batter falling soft into the round wells.
After he finished pouring, he looked down at his hands.
The tongs were still in his grip.
Sister Meiyun walked out with her empty teacup.
She stood beside the cart and looked down at the steel bowl in his hands—the taro mash bowl, the rim still ringed with pale purple.
She looked at it for a few seconds.
“…Your taro mash——” She paused.
“Why is it purple?” Lin Yinan looked down at the steel bowl.
The taro mash had shifted from pale brown to pale purple.
He’d noticed it yesterday.
He just hadn’t thought it was worth mentioning.
Sister Meiyun looked at him.
“I know that.” She raised her empty cup and took a sip.
“I’m just saying—didn’t you notice yesterday?” Lin Yinan didn’t answer.
Sister Meiyun didn’t ask again.
She turned and walked back into her shop.
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 taro mash bowl—the ring of pale purple was still there.
He didn’t wash it off.
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.
The masher was still on the drying rack.
He picked it up, looked at the purple lumps in the holes.
He scraped one with his finger.
It didn’t come off.
He set it back on the rack.
Didn’t wash it again.
Those two steel bowls—sweet potato and taro—sat side by side.
Steam from the fridge had left a small patch of moisture on the door.
After he closed it, water droplets slowly ran down the seam and stopped at the edge of the doorframe.
Pale purple.
He didn’t wipe it off.
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 through the mouth of the alley, cool, lifting the hem of his shirt once, then letting it fall.
He stood for a beat.
He realized he hadn’t heard that question today: “Tomorrow?” He realized he’d been waiting for it.
He just stood there.
Then he turned and walked into the deeper part of the alley.
The night swallowed his footsteps.
The repair shop’s fluorescent lights were still on.
Jiang Shoushi stood at the workbench, putting away her tools.
Wrenches hung back on the wall one by one.
14.
12.
Open-end.
Box-end.
After she finished, she didn’t turn off the light right away.
She walked to the entrance and looked across the street.
The cart was already covered, the tarp neat and flat.
The iron plate was empty.
She turned off the light.
Pulled down the metal shutter.
The lock clicked once, echoed in the alley, then was swallowed by the night.
Wind came through the mouth of the alley, carrying the smell of taro.
Faint.
But still there.
On the iron plate, one taro cake remained.
The one baked that afternoon.
No one had bought it.
Its crust had turned from golden to light brown, its edges slightly collapsed.
The wind blew, lifting a corner of the paper bag, then letting it fall.
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.
Half a finger’s width.
Wind came through the mouth of the alley, lifting a corner of the canvas tarp and letting it fall again.
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 had gone out.
Its ear twitched, ever so slightly.
Very soft.
In the fridge, the steel bowls sat side by side.
Sweet potato.
Taro.
A finger’s width apart.
The pale purple ring on the bowl’s rim slowly dried in the cold air, turning into fine powder.
The entire alley went dark.
The wind stopped.
The taro cake on the iron plate was still there.
End of Chapter 16.