The sky wasn’t fully bright yet.
Lin Yinan opened the fridge.
Cold air hit his face.
The taro mash was still in the steel bowl, covered with a damp cloth, the corner folded neatly inward.
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.
When he pulled back the canvas 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 mixed the red bean and custard batters first, poured them into the copper molds, covered the lids.
Then he opened the fridge and took out the steel bowl of taro mash.
He scooped up a portion, put it into a freshly mixed batch of batter, and stirred.
A purple-white swirl slowly spread across the bowl, the color gradually evening out.
Poured it into the copper molds.
The first taro cake came out of the mold.
Steam rose, white and hazy, lingering a moment longer than usual in the morning light.
He didn’t place it on the iron plate.
He put it on the inner shelf of the cart, using a small saucer to hold down the corner of the paper bag.
He didn’t write it on the blackboard.
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.
As he took the paper bag, his gaze shifted inward—a saucer held down a paper bag, its corner folded.
“Today?” “Mm.” The man didn’t ask what it was.
He put the paper bag into his suit pocket and left.
The middle schooler bought a red bean one, 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 paper bag on the inner shelf.
Didn’t reach out.
Just looked.
Sister Meiyun walked out with her tea.
She stood beside the cart, didn’t look at the iron plate, looked first at the inner shelf.
“Taro?” “Mm.” “Keeping it inside?” “Mm.” Sister Meiyun didn’t press.
She took a sip of her tea.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, lifting the hair from her forehead.
Her gaze passed over the cart and landed on the repair shop’s half-open metal shutter across the street.
“She hasn’t opened yet today.” Lin Yinan was pouring batter, not looking up.
“…Mm.” Sister Meiyun turned and walked back into the breakfast shop.
The metal shutter slid down halfway behind her.
In the late morning, the light in the alley shifted from gold to bright white.
The wind poured in from the mouth of the alley, lifting a corner of the cart’s canvas tarp and letting it fall again.
Lin Yinan was flipping cakes, the iron tongs turning once in his hand, flipping another one.
His movements were as steady as always, the rhythm of his wrist fixed, like a hand-calculated operation in progress.
Then the flower shirt came.
A bright blue motorcycle screeched to a halt in front of the cart.
Before he even killed the engine, he jumped off.
He wore a short-sleeved flower shirt, green with yellow flowers, one button at the collar undone, revealing a white undershirt beneath.
His voice was loud—the kind of volume that would carry through the entire alley.
“Boss!” Lin Yinan’s tongs stopped in midair.
“One of each for me.” He looked at the flower shirt.
Didn’t say “are you sure” or “have you tried these before” or “which one.” He picked cakes with the tongs.
Red bean.
Custard.
Ginger sweet potato.
Then he lifted the saucer from the inner shelf and took down the paper bag.
The bag was still slightly warm.
He put it in, folded one corner down, and handed it over.
The flower shirt took it, opened the taro paper bag, and took a big bite.
Chewed hard, like someone truly hungry.
Then he stopped, looked down at the cake in his hand, chewed twice more, and swallowed.
“Wow!
Delicious!” The alley was quiet.
White steam from the soy milk shop seeped through the gaps in the tin roof—soft, like a cloud that hadn’t quite woken up.
The breakfast shop’s metal shutter was half open.
No one spoke.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, lifting a corner of the cart’s canvas tarp and letting it fall again.
The flower shirt took another bite.
Chewed.
Looked down at the cake, then up at Lin Yinan.
“Why didn’t you write that you have taro?” Lin Yinan stood behind the cart, still holding the iron tongs.
“We have it today.” “Then why not write it?” The wind came through the mouth of the alley.
Cool.
A corner of the cart’s canvas tarp lifted, then fell.
Lin Yinan didn’t explain.
He stood there, tongs still in his hand.
After a moment, he said something.
“Someone would ask.” The flower shirt looked at him for two seconds.
Not sizing him up.
Not thinking “this guy is strange.” He was just listening to that sentence.
Then he smiled, didn’t ask again.
He stuffed the rest of the cake into his mouth, brushed the crumbs off his hands, swung onto his motorcycle, and revved the throttle.
The sound of the bright blue motorcycle lingered at the mouth of the alley for a few seconds.
The engine sound slowly faded in the alley, then disappeared.
At the edge of the cart, on the asphalt, lay a button.
Green with yellow flowers, plastic, very small, dropped in the gap between the wheel and the asphalt.
Where he had stood.
Lin Yinan saw it.
He didn’t call after him.
Didn’t chase.
He kept flipping cakes.
Batter fell into the copper molds, soft, like rain falling on dry earth.
He closed the copper mold lid.
Steam seeped from the edges.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley.
The button rolled half a turn on the asphalt and stopped.
He didn’t pick it up.
Close to noon, the flower shirt appeared at the repair shop entrance.
He hadn’t turned off the engine; the blue motorcycle’s engine rumbled low in the alley.
He walked in, his footsteps loud.
“Mechanic!
Can you check my brakes?
Felt weird riding over just now!” Jiang Shoushi poked her head out from behind the engine hood.
She glanced at his bike, then at his flower shirt.
One button undone at the collar.
Empty spot.
“…Brakes?” “Yeah!
Right side!
Vibrates when I press it!” She set down the wrench, walked over, and crouched down to check.
Caliper slightly loose.
She didn’t speak.
Started disassembling.
Wrench on the bolt, turned once, turned again.
Her movements were steady, the interval between each turn almost the same.
The flower shirt stood beside her.
Not scrolling on his phone, not looking at the tools on the wall, just standing there, watching her hands.
“You people in this alley are all so quiet.” Jiang Shoushi didn’t answer.
Kept turning the bolt.
“That boss over there, too.
I talked to him for a while, and he didn’t say a word.” She turned twice.
On the third turn, it was half a beat slower than the first two.
She didn’t stop.
“He’s not much of a talker, is he?” The wrench stopped on the bolt.
“No.” Flower shirt: “Then what?” She turned the wrench one full rotation.
Then said something, her voice not loud, as if just answering in passing.
“He just doesn’t speak first.” The flower shirt looked at her.
Didn’t ask again.
After a while, the brakes were fixed.
She stood up, put the wrench back on the workbench, and wiped her hands.
The flower shirt paid.
As he fumbled for his wallet, a receipt fell from his pocket and drifted to the ground.
He didn’t notice.
Jiang Shoushi saw it.
She didn’t call after him.
He swung onto his motorcycle, and before revving the throttle, turned back to say: “That taro one was really good.” Then he rode off.
The blue motorcycle’s engine sound lingered in the alley for a few seconds, then slowly faded, and finally disappeared.
Jiang Shoushi stood at the workbench, still holding the wrench.
Her gaze landed on the receipt on the floor by the door.
She didn’t pick it up right away.
She hung the wrench back on the wall first, then walked over, bent down, and picked it up.
The receipt bore the name of a hardware store, dated last week, a small amount.
She didn’t throw it away.
She placed it on the corner of the workbench.
Beside the empty paper bag and the washer.
In the afternoon, the street was at its quietest.
Sunlight slanted into the alley, cutting the asphalt into two halves—one bright, one dark.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool, carrying a faint smell of dust from afar.
Jiang Shoushi walked out of the repair shop.
She wasn’t wearing coveralls.
She wore a dark blue thin jacket, a washed oil stain at the cuff.
Her hair was tied back carelessly, a strand falling by her cheek.
Her hands hung at her sides, holding nothing.
She crossed the alley.
Her footsteps on the asphalt, the interval between each step almost the same.
Lin Yinan was washing 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, the water stopped.
He heard footsteps.
He didn’t look up.
But he turned off the water.
The steel bowl still in his hands.
The footsteps stopped in front of the cart.
He looked up.
Jiang Shoushi stood there.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, lifting the hair from her forehead.
She didn’t brush it away.
She stood in front of the cart, looking at him.
Then she took something from her jacket pocket—very small, plastic, green with yellow flowers.
A button.
She placed it on the edge of the cart.
Didn’t push it toward him.
Just set it there.
Then she turned and walked back to the repair shop.
Her footsteps crossed the asphalt, the interval between each step almost the same.
The metal shutter pulled halfway down, fluorescent light spilling through the gap, casting a long bright strip across the asphalt.
She walked into the shutter.
Didn’t look back.
Lin Yinan looked down at the edge of the cart.
The button.
Green with yellow flowers.
Exactly the same as the one he’d seen drop on the asphalt that morning.
He didn’t say “where did you find it.” Didn’t say “I saw it too.” He reached out and picked it up.
Very small, plastic, a little worn at the edge, the color already faded in places, revealing a pale white underneath.
He held it in his palm.
The plastic’s temperature was slowly replaced by the warmth of his fingertips.
He opened the small drawer beside the change box.
Inside: two slips of paper.
One wire ring.
He placed the button inside.
Beside the wire ring.
A finger’s width apart.
Closed the drawer.
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.
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.
The taro mash bowl sat beside the sweet potato bowl.
Side by side.
A finger’s width apart.
He glanced at them.
Didn’t adjust.
Then he opened the small drawer beside the change box.
Inside: two slips of paper, folded together.
One wire ring.
One button.
Two slips of paper.
One wire ring.
One button.
Side by side.
Each occupying its own space.
He looked at them for a few seconds.
Didn’t adjust.
Closed the drawer.
Pulled down the canvas tarp, buckles fastened.
One.
Two.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool, lifting the hem of his shirt and letting it fall.
He stood beside the cart, locked it.
Looked up across the alley.
The repair shop’s metal shutter was already down.
Fluorescent light was still on, seeping through the gap, a thin strip.
He stood for one beat.
Then turned and walked into the night.
The night swallowed his footsteps.
Inside the repair shop.
Jiang Shoushi stood at the workbench.
Wrenches hung back on the wall.
Cloth folded.
She stood there, not turning off the light right away.
She walked to the windowsill.
The inner side.
The slip of paper with the character “芋” was still there.
Edges neat, crease deep.
She looked at it.
Didn’t move it.
Then she turned off the light.
Walked to the door.
Before pulling down the metal shutter, she reached into her coverall pocket and felt a receipt.
Its edge slightly wrinkled—the one she’d picked up today.
She didn’t take it out.
Just touched it.
The metal shutter came all the way down.
The metallic click echoed in the alley for a moment, then fell silent.
The night swallowed her footsteps.
Oil Seal sat between the cart and the repair shop.
Tail wrapped around its front paws.
One notch to the left.
Its fur trembled slightly in the evening breeze.
The 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.
End of Chapter 18.