The sky wasn’t fully bright yet.
The fog had already cleared.
Light came through the mouth of the alley, thin and pale, like a sheet of paper not yet written on.
The moisture on the asphalt had retreated to the shadows at the base of the walls, waiting to come back out in the afternoon.
The copper molds were already hot.
A blue flame burned steadily at the burner, and the bottom of the molds made a faint hissing sound, like dry wood slowly cracking.
Lin Yinan stood behind the cart, the iron tongs in his hand.
Batter poured into the round wells, soft, like rain falling on dry earth.
The alley was very quiet.
Steam from the soy milk shop seeped through the gaps in the tin roof, white, soft.
The breakfast shop’s metal shutter was closed.
The repair shop’s metal shutter was already open, fluorescent lights on, light spilling through the doorway, spreading a long bright strip across the asphalt.
No one walked out.
Lin Yinan was flipping cakes.
The iron tongs touched the edge of the copper mold, making a very light clink.
He flipped one, flipped another.
The rhythm of his wrist was the same as always, steady, like a hand-calculated operation in progress.
Then the footsteps came.
From the repair shop.
Soles on the asphalt, dry, steady, the interval between each step almost the same.
The footsteps crossed the alley, closer and closer.
Between the third and fourth steps, there was a gap.
Longer than every previous step.
Very brief, a length that would barely be noticed.
Then the fourth step landed.
Back to normal speed.
The footsteps continued forward, past the cart, moving toward the mouth of the alley.
Farther and farther, slowly growing fainter.
She didn’t stop.
Didn’t look at him.
Lin Yinan was flipping the last cake.
The tongs gripped the edge of the cake and turned it over; the bottom was golden brown.
Then the tongs didn’t immediately leave the copper mold.
Paused for a beat.
Hovered at the edge of the mold, like someone who hadn’t yet decided where to set something down.
Then the tongs returned to their place.
Hung on the side rack, handle facing right, the same as always.
Not put in the wrong place.
Just a beat late.
The wind stopped at that moment.
Not suddenly.
It just happened that the current gust had finished blowing.
The one that had poured in from the mouth of the alley, past the cart, past the repair shop entrance.
By the time she walked beside the cart, the wind was passing behind her through the alley.
After she passed, the wind stopped.
The next gust hadn’t come yet.
For two or three seconds, there was no wind in the alley.
The tarp hung still; the steam from the copper molds was no longer blown sideways, rising straight up, scattering into a translucent column.
Then the next gust came in from the mouth of the alley, cool, carrying the faint smell of dust and earth from afar.
The tarp lifted once, then fell back down.
Oil Seal sat on the awning.
Its ears turned first, when she walked out of the repair shop.
Ears toward the mouth of the alley, like listening for a sound it already knew would come.
When she passed the cart, its ears didn’t follow.
Didn’t turn toward the direction she was leaving.
They stayed facing Lin Yinan, like watching someone flip cakes.
After she was far away, the footsteps faded, and only then did its ears turn back toward the mouth of the alley.
Not fast, not slow.
Just like someone who had finished checking something and turned their head back.
Its position was the same as yesterday.
To the left.
But a little closer to the center than yesterday—about a finger’s width.
The footsteps were already far away.
The alley fell quiet.
The copper molds were still heating; the tongs hung on the rack, handle facing right.
Lin Yinan kept flipping cakes.
The next batch of batter poured into the copper molds, soft, like rain falling on dry earth.
Steam seeped from the edges of the lids, blown sideways by the next gust of wind.
The footsteps didn’t come back.
When he flipped the next cake, the interval was one beat longer than usual.
The day went on like that.
Red bean.
Custard.
Ginger sweet potato.
The man in the suit bought two.
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 steam rising from the copper molds.
The old man cycled past.
Didn’t stop, but slowed down.
He glanced at the iron plate—no taro.
He didn’t ask.
Rode on.
In the afternoon, wind came through the mouth of the alley, growing warmer.
The copper molds cooled and heated, cooled and heated.
The last customers left.
The light in the alley shifted from gold to pale orange, then to gray.
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 change box was closed and slid into the drawer.
He opened the fridge and glanced inside.
The ginger was still there.
The sweet potato bowl had been washed and set upside down.
The taro bowl had been washed too, the ring of purple powder still at its edge.
He closed the fridge door.
Then he pulled down the canvas tarp.
Metal buckles fastened.
One.
Two.
Wind came through the mouth of the alley; the tarp billowed once, then settled.
He locked the cart.
Stood up straight.
He didn’t leave.
He stood beside the cart.
Hands at his sides.
Wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool, lifting his shirt hem once, then letting it fall.
He looked 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.
Inside, he could faintly hear the clatter of a wrench against metal, very light, carried across the street.
He didn’t walk over.
He stood there, looking at that strip of light.
The wind blew for another gust.
He reached into his apron pocket and touched the edge of the paper.
Still there.
He didn’t take it out.
Just touched it.
Then he lowered his hand.
He stood for a while, long enough for the light in the alley to shift from gray to deep blue.
Long enough for the clatter of the wrench inside the repair shop to stop.
Long enough for the wind to stop and blow, blow and stop.
Then he turned and walked into the deeper part of the alley.
The night swallowed his footsteps.
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.
Beside the strip of light, a faint shadow.
Left by the person who had just been standing there.
On the asphalt, where he had stood, the dust had been pressed down slightly into a small patch.
But no one was standing there anymore.
Oil Seal sat on the awning.
Not centered.
To the left.
A little closer to the middle than yesterday.
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 slightly.
Then the wind stopped.
The tarp stopped too.
There was no other sound in the alley.
End of Chapter 22.