The sky wasn’t fully bright yet.
The light at the mouth of the alley was still thin—so thin it was like a layer of egg wash that hadn’t been evenly stirred, clinging to the asphalt, where shadows hadn’t yet dared to take shape.
As Lin Yinan walked into the alley, he habitually glanced toward the repair shop first.
The metal shutter was open.
The fluorescent lights were on.
He stopped.
His footsteps halted on the asphalt, faint, like the sound of a tire rolling over gravel.
He didn’t walk forward.
He stood about a third of the way between the mouth of the alley and the cart, across the alley, looking at that open metal shutter.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley.
He stood there.
When the wind stopped, he kept walking.
Someone was inside.
Jiang Shoushi stood in front of the workbench.
Her back was to the door.
Her hair was already tied back, her coveralls already on, an old oil stain on the cuff that wouldn’t wash out—a patch of fabric on the deep blue that was noticeably darker.
She was wiping the workbench.
From left to right.
One wipe, two, three.
Her rhythm was the same as always.
But on the third wipe, the rag paused at the edge of the table for a beat—like she was confirming something—before she set it down.
She didn’t turn around.
Lin Yinan walked to the cart, reached for the edge of the canvas tarp.
The metal buckle clinked against the iron frame—the sound echoed in the alley for a moment, then was swallowed by the morning quiet.
The tarp came down, folded, placed on the inner shelf.
He started mixing the batter.
When the flour poured into the bowl, white dust rose, floated for a moment in the fluorescent light, then settled.
He reached for the water pitcher.
He didn’t use a measuring cup.
He poured it directly into the bowl.
Stopped at a certain point.
No hesitation.
No measurement.
His hand knew when to stop on its own.
The whisk turned.
Flour and water slowly merged, turning from two separate things into a uniform batter.
The surface was smooth, no bubbles—like a mirror not yet broken.
The consistency was right.
Not right by the recipe.
Right in another way.
He set down the whisk and opened the fridge.
Cold air hit his face.
The red bean bowl was covered with a damp cloth, its corner folded neatly inward.
He took it out and placed it on the counter.
When he closed the fridge door, his gaze swept across the interior.
The ginger was still beside the sweet potato.
Side by side.
A finger’s width apart.
Neither had been moved.
He closed the fridge door.
He placed the copper molds on the burner.
Lit the flame.
A blue tongue of fire flickered once in the morning light, and the bottom of the molds began to heat, emitting a faint sound—like dried wood slowly cracking.
He stood there, hands at his sides.
He wasn’t looking across the alley.
But he knew the fluorescent lights were still on.
When the man in the suit arrived, the sky was fully bright.
He stopped in front of the cart, glanced at the iron plate.
Red bean.
Custard.
Ginger sweet potato.
He bought two custard ones.
Lin Yinan picked, bagged, handed over.
When the man took the paper bag, he glanced into the alley.
“Across the street opened early today.” Lin Yinan was placing change into the man’s palm, not looking up.
“…Mm.” “I recommended a coworker for an oil change last time,” the man said, putting the paper bag into his suit pocket, pressing the corner down with his finger.
“He said the mechanic doesn’t talk much, but her skill is solid.” Lin Yinan’s hand stopped mid-air.
“…Which coworker?” “Sales guy.
Drives a silver sedan.
He said two of her wrenches are old, but she torques them tighter than brand-new ones.” The man didn’t wait for an answer.
He turned and walked away.
His leather shoes made a steady rhythm on the asphalt, gradually fading, turning at the mouth of the alley, and disappearing.
Lin Yinan stood there, still holding the tongs.
He thought of something.
Silver sedan.
He thought he’d seen that car parked at the repair shop entrance.
That afternoon, sunlight had slanted through the door, and a thin layer of dust covered the body.
He didn’t confirm it.
He set down the tongs and continued pouring the next batch of batter.
The batter fell into the copper molds, soft, like rain on dry earth.
Sister Meiyun pushed open the breakfast shop’s metal shutter and stepped out.
She was holding her tea.
She stood beside the cart and took a sip.
Her gaze moved from Lin Yinan across the alley.
“She got here first today.” Lin Yinan was flipping a cake, not looking up.
“…Mm.” “She wasn’t this early before.” “…Mm.” Sister Meiyun took another sip of tea.
She set the cup down on the edge of the cart.
The bottom met the iron plate with a very light click.
“Your batter is more than yesterday.” She turned and walked back into the breakfast shop.
The metal shutter slid down halfway behind her—the sound of scraping metal dragged through the alley for a moment, then stopped.
Lin Yinan stood behind the cart, still holding the tongs.
He looked down at the batter in the bowl.
It was indeed more than yesterday.
He hadn’t measured the water, and he hadn’t measured the flour.
Now it looked like about half a portion more.
He didn’t pour it back.
He kept flipping.
White steam rose from the edges of the copper mold lids, slowly dispersing in the morning light.
Close to noon, the apprentice’s red scooter screeched to a halt in front of the repair shop.
He jumped off, helmet still dangling from his hand, drenched in sweat.
“Boss, why are you so early today?” Jiang Shoushi was changing the oil, not looking up.
“Don’t know.” She poured the oil from the jug into the funnel—the stream thin, steady, not splashing.
The apprentice stood at the doorway, hesitated, glanced across the alley.
The cart was already open, the burner lit, white steam rising from the copper molds.
He turned back.
“Did you eat this morning?” “…No.” “I’ll go buy some.
Red bean?” Jiang Shoushi’s hand paused on the oil jug.
“…Is the taro still there?” The apprentice didn’t turn around.
“I’ll go check.” He ran across the alley.
His footsteps echoed on the asphalt for a few seconds, then stopped in front of the cart.
“Brother Lin, do you still have taro?” Lin Yinan’s tongs stopped mid-air.
“…Yes.” “I’ll take one.” Lin Yinan opened the fridge and took out the taro mash bowl.
Lifted the lid.
Purple mash, a thin dry skin on the surface, the ring of powder at the edge completely dried—like a fine pencil line.
He scooped up a portion, placed it into the copper mold.
Covered the lid.
The apprentice stood in front of the cart.
He didn’t scroll on his phone.
Didn’t look around.
He just stood there and waited.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, lifting his shirt hem once and letting it fall.
Three minutes later, the cake came out of the mold.
Lin Yinan lifted the lid; white steam billowed out, carrying the smell of taro.
He picked it up with the tongs, flipped it over—the bottom golden brown, the edges slightly puffed.
Put it in a paper bag, folded one corner down, and handed it over.
The apprentice took it.
The paper bag was warm against his palm.
“Brother Lin, how much?” “No charge.” The apprentice’s hand stopped on the paper bag.
“…Boss told me to buy it.” “I know.” Lin Yinan was wiping the copper molds clean, not looking up.
“No charge.” The apprentice stood there, looking down at the paper bag in his hand.
The folded corners were aligned, perfectly neat.
“I’ll head back then.” He ran back to the repair shop.
The red scooter’s engine echoed in the alley for a few seconds, then fell quiet.
Inside the repair shop.
The apprentice set the paper bag on the workbench.
“Boss, taro.” Jiang Shoushi was tightening a bolt.
The wrench turned once, twice, three times.
After finishing, she set down the wrench and walked over.
Opened the paper bag.
Inside was a taro cake—golden brown, the bottom evenly browned, the edges slightly puffed.
“How much?” “Brother Lin didn’t charge.” Jiang Shoushi’s hand stopped on the edge of the paper bag.
She didn’t speak.
She didn’t ask why.
She took out the taro cake and took a bite.
Chewed.
Took another bite.
As she ate, her gaze fell on the window.
Across the alley, the cart was still there, the burner still lit, white steam seeping from the edges of the copper molds, turning into translucent threads in the afternoon sunlight.
After she finished, she folded the paper bag and put it in the right pocket of her coveralls.
Next to the slip of paper with the character “芋.” Afternoon.
The quietest time on the street.
Sunlight slanted into the alley, cutting the asphalt into two halves.
The old man rode his bicycle past the mouth of the alley.
He didn’t look toward the cart.
He rode straight to the repair shop entrance, stopped, and parked his bicycle.
Jiang Shoushi was crouched in front of the engine hood, tightening a bolt.
She heard the footsteps, didn’t look up.
“Boss, the brakes you adjusted last time are working smoothly now.” “…Mm.” The old man stood at the doorway, not walking in.
He stood at the boundary between shadow and sunlight, his hand on the doorframe.
“I passed by the mouth of the alley today and saw the cake seller washing his steel bowls.” Jiang Shoushi’s hand stopped on the wrench.
“He washed them longer than usual today,” the old man said.
He paused, then added: “I wasn’t paying attention to him.
I just happened to pass by.” He stood there.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, lifting his jacket collar once and letting it fall.
“I don’t know if you needed to know that.” He turned and walked out, mounted his bicycle, and pedaled toward the other end of the alley.
The chain was tight—no clatter.
Only the sound of tires rolling over asphalt, dry and steady, fading one rotation at a time.
Jiang Shoushi crouched in front of the engine hood, the wrench still in her hand.
She didn’t look up.
After tightening that bolt, she set down the wrench, stood up, and walked to the workbench.
Stood there.
Not doing anything.
Just standing.
Her hands hung at her sides.
The wind came through the door, lifting the hair from her forehead.
She didn’t brush it away.
She stood there for a while.
Then she walked back to the engine hood and continued working.
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 went into the fridge, placed beside the sweet potato bowl.
Side by side.
A finger’s width apart.
He glanced at them.
Didn’t adjust.
Closed the fridge door.
He stood beside the cart.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool.
He reached for the edge of the tarp and pulled it down.
Buckles fastened.
One.
Two.
The wind came through; the tarp billowed once, then settled.
He locked the cart.
Stood up straight.
Looked across the alley.
The repair shop’s metal shutter was still open, the fluorescent lights still on—light spilling through the doorway, spreading a long bright strip across the asphalt.
He stood there.
Didn’t walk over.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool, lifting his shirt hem once and letting it fall.
He stood for one beat.
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, one by one.
14 mm.
12 mm.
Open-end.
Box-end.
Cloth folded.
She stood there, not turning off the light right away.
She walked to the door and glanced across the alley.
The cart was already covered, the tarp neat and flat.
The iron plate was empty.
She reached into the right pocket of her coveralls and touched the paper bag.
Its edge was folded—rough texture.
Next to the slip of paper.
She didn’t take them out.
She stood at the doorway, her hand in her pocket.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool, carrying the dampness of evening and the faint smell of cooking smoke from afar.
She turned off the light.
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.
She just stood there.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley.
Her fingers touched the edge of the paper in her pocket.
She didn’t take it out.
She just stood, the wind blowing, not moving.
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 covering it neatly, like a person sleeping.
Oil Seal sat between the cart and the repair shop.
No one knew when it had appeared.
It sat there, tail wrapped around its front paws—its fur invisible in the darkness, but the shape of its sitting was clear.
Not centered.
To the left.
But a little closer to the middle than yesterday—about a finger’s width.
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.
Very soft.
Like listening for a sound that hadn’t quite settled.
Then the wind stopped.
The tarp stopped too.
There was no other sound in the alley.
End of Chapter 21.