The sky wasn’t fully bright yet.
The fog was thin.
It clung to the asphalt like glue that hadn’t quite dried.
Lin Yinan walked to the cart and pulled back the canvas tarp.
The metal buckles clinked against the iron frame.
The sound was a little duller than usual in the alley, because the air was so damp.
He opened the fridge.
Cold air rushed out.
The taro mash was still in the steel bowl, covered with a damp cloth.
The ring of powder at the edge had dried completely, turning into a fine, thin line, like a pencil drawing.
He looked at it.
Didn’t move it.
Closed the fridge door.
He mixed the red bean and custard batters.
His wrist turned, the rhythm as steady as always.
When he poured them into the copper molds, they made a faint hiss.
The sound carried farther in the foggy air.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool.
Carrying the smell of earth.
There was movement above the awning—the sound of fur brushing against canvas.
He didn’t look up.
He knew Oil Seal was there.
But when he finished pouring the second batch of batter, his peripheral vision swept across the awning.
Oil Seal’s position was the same as yesterday.
To the left.
But almost centered now.
He didn’t stop to look.
The morning customers trickled in.
The man in the suit bought two custard cakes.
When he took the paper bag, he looked at Lin Yinan.
Didn’t speak.
Left.
The middle schooler bought a red bean one, eating it as he walked, his backpack bouncing behind him.
The backpack was bulging, zipper closed.
The mother pushing the stroller bought one custard and one red bean; the baby sat in the stroller, eyes fixed on the cakes on the iron plate, not reaching out, just looking.
Sister Meiyun pushed open the metal shutter and stepped out.
She was holding her tea today.
She stood beside the cart and took a sip.
“Heavy fog.” Lin Yinan was flipping a cake.
The handle of the iron tongs touched the edge of the copper mold, making a very light clink.
“Mm.” Sister Meiyun took another sip of tea.
Her gaze shifted from Lin Yinan across the alley.
The repair shop’s metal shutter was open, fluorescent lights on, but no one walked out.
She watched for a while, then lowered her head and set her teacup on the edge of the cart.
Lin Yinan was pouring a fresh batch of batter, not looking up.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley.
Around noon, the fog cleared.
Sunlight came through the gaps in the clouds, thin, like a layer of diluted honey.
The light in the alley shifted from gray-white to pale gold; the fog slowly receded from the asphalt, retreating to the shadows at the edges of the walls.
Jiang Shoushi walked out of the repair shop.
She stood at the entrance.
Didn’t step over the threshold.
She wasn’t holding a tool.
On the cuff of her coveralls was a dried oil stain, dark against the deep blue fabric.
She stood there, looking down.
Oil Seal sat at her feet.
At some point, Oil Seal had appeared.
It sat there, tail wrapped around its front paws, its fur catching a thin layer of golden light in the pale sunlight.
Didn’t meow.
Didn’t rub against her.
Just sat, facing the cart across the alley.
Jiang Shoushi didn’t crouch down to touch it.
She just stood.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, lifting the hair from her forehead.
She didn’t brush it away.
Her gaze fell across the alley.
The cart was still there, white steam rising from the copper molds, the flame almost invisible in the daylight.
Lin Yinan stood behind the cart, washing steel bowls.
The sound of water splashing carried across the street.
It was neither loud nor soft.
Oil Seal changed positions, from sitting to lying on its side, head resting on its front paws, eyes half-closed.
Then she turned and walked back into the repair shop.
Didn’t look back.
The apprentice crouched in the corner of the repair shop, organizing the toolbox.
He saw his boss walk in, say nothing, walk to the workbench, stand there for a moment, then pick up a rag and start wiping the surface.
Small movements, left to right.
The apprentice kept organizing.
The things on the workbench were still there: an empty paper bag, one corner folded; a rusty washer, round; a receipt from a hardware store, its edge slightly wrinkled.
When the apprentice wiped past the paper bag, he picked it up, wiped the surface, and put it back.
He didn’t measure the gap.
He didn’t pay attention to the position.
After putting it back, he kept wiping.
But the position where he set it down was about a finger’s width away from where it had been.
He didn’t notice.
Afternoon, the quietest time on the street.
Sunlight had shifted from overhead to the west, stretching the cart’s shadow longer, slanting across the asphalt.
The copper molds had cooled.
The flame was out.
Lin Yinan was preparing to close up—stacking the steel bowls, covering them with a damp cloth and putting them in the fridge, sliding the change box into the drawer.
When he opened the fridge, he saw the taro mash bowl still there.
Covered with a damp cloth.
The ring of powder at the edge still there.
He didn’t move it.
Closed the fridge door.
Then he stood at the side of the cart and glanced at the iron hook.
The white cloth was hanging there, its edges already starting to fray.
He reached out, took it down, folded it in half, folded it again, hung it back.
Same position as before, same fold.
But after he hung it, his fingers rested on the cloth for one beat longer.
Just rested there.
Didn’t pull.
Didn’t adjust.
Just held.
Then he turned to pull down the tarp.
The sunset hadn’t come yet.
But light was already slanting in from the mouth of the alley, spreading a thin layer of orange across the asphalt.
The tarp came down, buckles fastened, one, two.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool, carrying the dampness of evening and the faint smell of cooking smoke from afar.
He locked the cart.
Stood up straight.
Didn’t look across.
He stood for one beat.
Then turned and walked into the deeper part of the alley.
The night swallowed his footsteps, as always.
The repair shop’s lights were still on.
Jiang Shoushi stood at the workbench, hanging wrenches back on the wall one by one.
14 mm.
12 mm.
Open-end wrench.
Box-end wrench.
One by one, spaced evenly, as if measured with a ruler.
After she finished, 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 no longer there.
She’d taken it this morning, put it in the left pocket of her coveralls.
It was still there.
The edge of the paper pressed against the fabric, a slightly rough texture.
She didn’t take it out.
She just touched the outside of the pocket, her fingertip pressed through the fabric, feeling the paper’s shape.
Then she lowered her hand.
Turned off the light.
Walked to the door.
The metal shutter came down.
The metallic click echoed in the alley for a moment, then was swallowed by the night.
She stood outside.
The night was dark.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool.
She didn’t look across.
She just stood there, her hand in her coverall pocket, her fingertip touching the edge of the paper, pausing for a moment.
Then she turned and walked into the night.
Didn’t look back.
The alley went dark.
The soy milk shop’s shutter was closed, the breakfast shop’s shutter closed, the repair shop’s shutter closed.
Only the cart remained.
Its tarp covered it neatly, like a person asleep.
Oil Seal sat between the cart and the repair shop.
Not centered.
Still a little left of center.
But almost centered now.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, lifting a corner of the cart’s canvas tarp and letting it fall again.
Oil Seal’s ear twitched, ever so softly.
Then the wind stopped.
The tarp stopped too.
The white cloth still hung from the iron hook.
Folded into four, its edges frayed, permanently gray.
It hung there.
There was no other sound in the alley.
End of Chapter 20.