The sky wasn’t fully bright yet.
Lin Yinan opened the refrigerator.
Cold air hit his face.
The steel bowls were still there.
Sweet potato.
Taro.
Side by side, a finger’s width apart.
The ring of pale purple at the edge had dried completely, turned into fine powder, like a very thin layer of dust.
He looked at it for a few seconds.
Didn’t wipe it.
Didn’t move it.
Closed the fridge door.
While pouring the batter, he realized he was thinking about that purple.
Not thinking about why it changed color.
Just that it was still there.
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 lid of the taro mash bowl and glanced inside.
Purple mash, a thin dry skin on the surface, the ring of powder at the edge still intact.
He didn’t touch it.
Put the lid back on, returned it to the fridge.
Then he started mixing the red bean and custard batters.
As the copper molds heated, wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool.
The repair shop’s metal shutter was already open.
Fluorescent lights were on.
Jiang Shoushi crouched in front of the engine hood, a wrench in her hand.
Wind came through the doorway.
Not ginger.
Not custard.
Not red bean either.
It was a drier smell.
Powdery.
A little like earth.
Not sweet.
Her nose caught it first.
Her fingers paused on the wrench for half a beat.
She didn’t look up.
She didn’t know what it was.
She kept turning.
The wrench turned two rotations.
On the third, it was half a beat slower than the first two.
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.
After a few seconds, he heard his boss’s wrench start turning again.
The rhythm was 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.
The morning customers trickled in.
The man in the suit stopped in front of the cart.
He glanced at the iron plate.
Red bean.
Custard.
No taro.
He bought two custard ones.
After taking the paper bag, he didn’t leave right away.
“Not today?” “Taro?” “Mm.” “Not today.” The man didn’t ask again.
He left.
Lin Yinan stood there, still holding the iron tongs.
No taro today.
The purple remained.
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, eyes fixed on the iron plate.
No taro cake today.
But the baby still reached out a hand toward the iron plate, fingers opening and closing.
The mother gently pushed his hand away.
“Not yet.” Lin Yinan watched that small hand.
He didn’t speak.
Close to noon, an old truck pulled up at the repair shop entrance.
The driver got out and walked in: “Boss, the AC isn’t blowing cold.
Can you take a look?” Jiang Shoushi checked.
The compressor belt was loose.
She crouched down, fit the wrench over the bolt.
The driver stood beside her, glancing across the street.
“My wife bought a taro one yesterday.” Jiang Shoushi’s hand stopped on the wrench.
The driver didn’t notice.
“She said the ginger one is warmer.” Jiang Shoushi didn’t speak.
“The taro one isn’t.” The driver smiled.
“She’s the type who compares things.” Jiang Shoushi kept turning the bolt.
When she heard “the ginger one is warmer,” her fingers paused on the wrench for an extra beat.
The third rotation was half a beat slower than the first two.
The driver added: “Have you tried them?” “…Yes.” “Which one?” “Ginger.” Her voice was a little lower than usual.
The driver didn’t press.
Jiang Shoushi kept turning.
Fourth rotation.
The rhythm returned.
The old truck drove away.
The engine sound gradually faded in the alley.
Jiang Shoushi stood at the workbench, filling out the work order.
Date.
License plate.
Repair items.
Every character sat neatly on the page.
After writing the last character, she set down the pen.
She stood there.
After a while, she took a small slip of paper.
Picked up the pen.
The tip paused over the paper for one beat.
Then she wrote one character: 芋 She looked at that character.
Didn’t fold it.
Didn’t put it in the drawer.
She placed it on the inner side of the windowsill, where the wind wouldn’t blow it away and passersby wouldn’t see it at a glance.
She went back to the workbench.
Picked up the wrench.
Continued working.
Afternoon.
A bicycle sound came from the mouth of the alley.
The chain was tight, no clattering.
Just the sound of tires rolling over asphalt—dry.
The old man rode to the front of the cart.
Didn’t stop.
But he slowed down.
Glanced at the iron plate.
No taro.
He didn’t ask.
Rode past.
Pedaled once, the bicycle continuing forward.
Lin Yinan stood behind the cart, watching his back.
Yesterday he hadn’t stopped.
Today he hadn’t stopped either.
But today he’d slowed down.
Sister Meiyun walked out with her empty teacup.
She stood beside the cart, glanced down at the iron plate.
“Didn’t make taro today?” “No.” Sister Meiyun didn’t press.
She took a sip of tea from her already empty cup.
Stood for a while.
Then turned and walked back into the breakfast shop.
Afternoon.
Sunlight slanted into the alley.
The quietest time of day.
Lin Yinan was washing the steel bowls.
Water splashed loudly.
When he got to the third bowl, he paused.
Turned his head and glanced at the iron plate.
Empty.
He kept washing.
The middle schooler passed by.
Didn’t buy.
Glanced at the menu, walked on.
Evening.
The sky began to darken.
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 opened the fridge and glanced at the taro bowl.
The purple was still there.
The ring of powder at the edge was still there.
He didn’t move it.
Closed the fridge door.
The masher was still in the sink.
He picked it up, looked at the purple lumps in the holes.
Scraped one with his finger.
Didn’t come off.
Set it back on the drying rack.
He pulled down the canvas tarp.
Buckles fastened.
One.
Two.
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.
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 one beat.
Then he turned and walked into the deeper part of the alley.
The night swallowed his footsteps.
Inside the repair shop.
The fluorescent lights were still on.
Jiang Shoushi stood at the workbench.
Wrenches hung back on the wall.
Cloth folded.
She walked to the windowsill and glanced at the piece of paper.
One character.
芋.
Wind came through the gap in the door; the corner of the paper didn’t move.
It was placed on the inner side.
She stood there.
Didn’t pick it up.
Didn’t put it in the drawer.
Just looked at it.
The apprentice stood at the door: “Boss, I’m heading off.” Jiang Shoushi didn’t move.
“…Mm.” Lights off.
Shutter pulled down.
The metallic click of the lock echoed in the alley for a moment, then was swallowed by the night.
Oil Seal sat between the cart and the repair shop.
Tail wrapped around its front paws.
To the left.
Half a finger’s width.
Wind came through the mouth of the alley.
Its ear twitched, ever so slightly.
Very soft.
In the fridge, beside the sweet potato bowl, the taro bowl was still there.
The ring of pale purple at its edge had dried completely.
The entire alley went dark.
The repair shop’s lights were out.
On the windowsill, a piece of paper.
One character.
Wind came through the gap in the door, but didn’t move it.
It stayed there.
End of Chapter 17.