The sky wasn’t fully bright yet.
Lin Yinan opened the refrigerator.
The taro mash was still there.
Covered with a damp cloth.
The ring of powder at the edge was still there, faint and fine, purple, like the thinnest dotted line on a map.
He looked at it for a few seconds.
Didn’t move it.
Closed the fridge door.
After mixing the batter, he didn’t pour it into the copper molds right away.
He took out the taro bowl, lifted the lid, and glanced inside.
The thin dry skin on the surface was still there.
He gently pushed it aside with a scoop.
Underneath was still soft, the purple a little deeper than yesterday.
He put the lid back on.
Didn’t put it back in the fridge.
Placed it on the inner shelf of the cart.
Beside the red bean bowl.
Side by side.
A finger’s width apart.
Then he started pouring the batter.
As the copper molds heated, the wind came through the mouth of the alley, cold.
He thought of something.
Had the taro sold out yesterday?
He tried to remember.
Didn’t know.
There was still half a bowl left in the fridge, that much was certain.
But the iron plate had definitely been empty.
Who had bought the last one?
He didn’t know.
His body remembered how many he’d sold.
His mind didn’t.
He didn’t keep thinking about it.
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.
Ginger sweet potato.
He didn’t ask if there was taro today.
He bought one custard and one red bean.
Lin Yinan picked, bagged, made change.
When the man took the paper bag, his gaze shifted toward the inner shelf.
The taro bowl was there.
He didn’t speak.
Left.
The middle schooler bought a red bean one.
Ate it as he walked, backpack bouncing behind him.
The backpack was a little fuller than before, probably with an extra book stuffed inside.
Lin Yinan didn’t notice which one.
He just noticed the shape of the backpack was different from yesterday.
In the late morning, the soy milk shop’s steam seeped through the gaps in the tin roof—white, soft, like a cloud that hadn’t quite woken up.
Sister Meiyun pushed open the breakfast shop’s metal shutter and stepped out.
Tea in hand.
Stood beside the cart, took a sip.
Her gaze fell on the inner shelf of the cart.
“Will the taro sell out today?” Lin Yinan was pouring a fresh batch of batter, not looking up.
“Don’t know.” Sister Meiyun took another sip of tea and didn’t press.
She stood there.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool, lifting the hair from her forehead.
She looked toward the mouth of the alley, as if thinking of something.
After a while, she turned and walked back into the breakfast shop.
The metal shutter slid down halfway behind her.
Close to noon, 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, steady, drawing closer one rotation at a time.
The old man rode up to the cart.
He stopped.
He got off, parked his bicycle at the side of the road, walked to the cart, and looked down at the cakes on the iron plate.
Red bean.
Custard.
Ginger sweet potato.
He looked at all of them.
Then he looked up at Lin Yinan.
“Any taro left?” Lin Yinan stood behind the cart, the iron tongs in his hand.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool, lifting a corner of the cart’s canvas tarp and letting it fall again.
He opened the fridge, took out the half bowl of taro mash.
Lifted the lid.
Purple mash, a thin dry skin on the surface, underneath still soft.
He scooped up a portion, put it into the copper mold.
Covered the lid.
The old man stood there, watching the copper mold lid.
Didn’t look at his phone.
Didn’t look around.
Just stood there.
Three minutes later, the cake came out of the mold.
Lin Yinan picked it up with the tongs, put it in a paper bag, folded one corner down, and handed it over.
The old man took the paper bag.
Didn’t leave right away.
He opened it, looked down at the taro cake inside.
Golden brown edges, slightly puffed.
He took a breath.
Not a sigh.
A smell.
“My granddaughter used to like these.” Lin Yinan’s hand stopped on the tongs.
The old man put the paper bag into the basket on the front of his bicycle.
Then he climbed back on and pushed down on the pedal.
The bicycle glided forward a few meters, then stopped.
He didn’t turn around.
“She was twenty when she left.
Been gone for three years.” He paused.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool.
“I never used to stop.” He pushed down on the pedal.
The bicycle continued forward, turned at the mouth of the alley, and disappeared around the corner.
Lin Yinan stood behind the cart.
The tongs were still in his hand.
He looked down at the copper mold, the lid still open.
A thin ring of batter had set around the edge of the round well, dried into a translucent film.
He didn’t wipe it away.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool.
Sister Meiyun had come out sometime, without his noticing.
She stood beside the cart, teacup in hand, saying nothing.
She stood for a long time.
Then she turned her head and looked at Lin Yinan.
Didn’t say “are you okay.” Didn’t say “it’s alright.” She said one thing.
“She was twenty.
Three years.” Lin Yinan looked up.
Sister Meiyun took a sip of her now-cold tea.
“I thought she’d moved away.” She turned and walked back into the breakfast shop.
The metal shutter slid down behind her, hiding half the storefront.
Afternoon.
The quietest time on the street.
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, lifting a dry leaf from the pavement, spinning it a few times, letting it settle at the edge of the drain.
The taro bowl on the inner shelf was still there.
Lid on.
No one had touched it.
Inside the repair shop.
Jiang Shoushi crouched in front of the engine hood, tightening a bolt.
The wrench turned once, twice, three times.
Her movements were as steady as always.
But after she finished, she didn’t stand up right away.
She stayed crouched there, hand still on the wrench, looking at that bolt.
She thought of something.
She’d been waiting for a sound all morning.
Not the sound of the copper molds heating.
Not the clink of tongs against copper.
Another sound.
A bicycle chain.
Loose, clattering.
She’d waited for a while before remembering that sound was gone.
She stood up and walked to the workbench.
The apprentice was crouched in the corner, organizing the toolbox.
He looked up at his boss, then back down, and kept organizing.
Jiang Shoushi stood at the workbench.
She didn’t fill out a work order.
Her hands rested on the tabletop.
Light came through the window, slanting, cutting a bright white trapezoid across the floor.
She walked to the door.
Looked outside.
The cart was still there.
Lin Yinan stood behind the cart, washing the copper molds.
His movements were the same as always.
She watched for a few seconds.
He was washing them slower than usual.
She stood there, not stepping over the threshold.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool, carrying the smell of taro, very faint.
She didn’t make a point of smelling it.
She just stood there.
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.
He picked up the taro bowl—the lid was already on.
The ring of powder at the edge was still there, purple, completely dry.
He put it in the fridge, beside the sweet potato bowl.
Side by side.
A finger’s width apart.
He stood up.
Closed the fridge door.
Then he opened the small drawer beside the change box.
Inside: two slips of paper.
One wire ring.
One button.
And one more thing: an empty paper bag, one corner folded down.
He didn’t know when he’d put it in there.
He looked at it.
Nothing inside.
No note.
No crumbs.
Just an empty paper bag.
He took it out, held it in his hand.
The feel of paper, slightly rough.
He looked at it for a long time.
Then he put it back, beside the wire ring.
Side by side.
A finger’s width apart.
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.
Then he 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.
Didn’t leave.
He stood there, hands at his sides.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool.
He thought of this afternoon, washing the copper molds.
Water had flowed over his hands, warm.
He hadn’t been thinking of anything.
But he’d washed them slower than usual.
Because he’d been listening for a sound.
He hadn’t heard that sound.
But he was still listening.
He stood for a long time, long enough for the light in the alley to shift from pale gray to deep blue.
Then he 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 walked to the windowsill.
The inner side.
The slip of paper with the character “芋” was no longer there.
She’d taken it this morning.
She stood at the windowsill, hands at her sides.
The slip of paper was in the left pocket of her coveralls.
Its edge pressed against the fabric.
She didn’t take it out.
She turned off the light.
Walked to the door.
Pulled down the metal shutter.
The metallic click echoed in the alley for a moment, then fell silent.
She stood outside.
The night was dark.
She didn’t look across the street.
She just stood there.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool, carrying the smell of earth and taro.
Very faint.
She looked down.
Reached into her left pocket.
Her fingertips touched the slip of paper.
Its edge was slightly rough, like something folded many times and smoothed out again.
She didn’t take it out.
She just touched it.
Then she turned and walked into the night.
Didn’t look back.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool.
A corner of the cart’s canvas tarp lifted, then fell.
Oil Seal sat between the cart and the repair shop.
Tail wrapped around its front paws.
Not centered.
One notch to the left.
The wind stopped.
The alley was dark.
The day had finally ended.
End of Chapter 19.