The sky wasn’t fully bright yet.
The fog had cleared.
Light came through the mouth of the alley, thin and pale, like a layer of glue that hadn’t quite dried.
The moisture on the asphalt had retreated to the shadows at the base of the walls, waiting to come back out in the afternoon.
Lin Yinan opened the fridge.
Cold air hit his face.
The taro bowl was washed and set upside down.
The ring of purple powder at its edge was still there, fine and faint, like lines drawn in pencil.
The sweet potato bowl was washed too, set upside down beside it.
The ginger was still there, at the back of the fridge, on a small saucer.
Its skin had dried a little, edges slightly wrinkled.
He looked at it for a few seconds.
Closed the fridge door.
Flour poured into the bowl.
White dust rose, floated in the morning light for a moment, then settled.
Water added slowly, wrist turning, flour and water merging from two separate things into a uniform batter.
The surface was smooth, no bubbles.
The same measuring cup as always.
The same flour.
The same water.
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 lifted the copper mold lid, raised the batter bowl, and poured into the first round well.
Soft, like rain falling on dry earth.
Second.
Third.
Fourth.
Fifth.
He stopped.
One round well on the copper mold was still empty.
He looked down at the empty well.
There wasn’t much batter left in the bowl—about a third of a scoop’s worth.
He stood there, the batter bowl in his hand.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, lifting his shirt hem once, then letting it fall.
He set the bowl down.
Closed the copper mold lid.
Steam seeped from the edges, white, slowly dispersing in the morning light.
By the time the first batch came out, the man in the suit was already standing in front of the cart.
He bought two custard ones.
When he took the paper bag, he didn’t glance at the iron plate.
He just put the bag in his suit pocket and turned away.
The middle schooler arrived when only one red bean cake remained.
He bought it, eating as he walked, his backpack bouncing behind him.
He took a bite, chewed, walked back two steps, stopped in front of the cart, and glanced at the iron plate again.
“Only this much today?” Lin Yinan was washing the measuring cup.
Water splashed loudly, white batter water running down the edge of the sink.
He didn’t look up.
“This is how it is today.” The middle schooler didn’t ask again.
He took another bite of his cake and walked away.
His backpack bounced twice behind him, then he turned at the mouth of the alley and disappeared.
Crumbs of red bean cake fell on the asphalt, small pieces scattered like seeds blown by the wind.
When the mother pushing the stroller came, the red bean cakes were already sold out.
She bought one custard.
The baby sat in the stroller, eyes fixed on the steam rising from the copper molds.
Didn’t reach out.
Just looked.
The mother pushed the stroller away; the wheels made a faint friction sound on the asphalt, fading one rotation at a time.
Around noon, the wind grew warmer.
It came through the mouth of the alley, carrying the smell of early summer.
The soy milk shop’s steam had stopped rising; its shutter was pulled halfway down, the owner sitting in the shade by the door drinking tea.
Sister Meiyun didn’t walk out with her tea.
On the iron plate, only two ginger sweet potato cakes remained.
Placed on the far right, their crusts had already turned from golden to light brown, edges slightly collapsed.
No one bought them.
Lin Yinan was washing the steel bowls.
Water splashed loudly, hot water hitting the metal surface, white steam rising, turning into translucent threads in the midday sunlight.
When he reached the third bowl, the copper molds had already cooled.
The flame had gone out.
He didn’t add more batter.
Afternoon.
Wind poured in from the mouth of the alley.
The asphalt was hot under the sun; dust hung in the air, suspended in the light like a fine powder.
The two ginger sweet potato cakes were still there.
Their crusts had dried a little more, the collapse at the edges more pronounced.
The wind blew, lifting a corner of the paper bag once, then letting it fall.
He glanced at them.
Then kept washing the steel bowls.
No one passed by.
The repair shop’s metal shutter was open, fluorescent lights on.
No one walked out.
Evening.
Light slanted in from the mouth of the alley, spreading a thin layer of pale orange across the asphalt.
The soy milk shop’s metal shutter was pulled down.
The breakfast shop’s metal shutter was pulled down.
The garbage truck had come and gone.
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 taro bowl and sweet potato bowl were still there, set upside down, the rings of powder still at their edges.
He closed the fridge door.
Then he walked to the iron plate.
The two ginger sweet potato cakes were still there.
He picked them up with the tongs, put them in the same paper bag, folded one corner down, and placed it on the inner shelf of the cart.
Didn’t take them with him.
He pulled down the canvas tarp.
Buckles fastened.
One.
Two.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool, lifting his shirt hem once, then letting it fall.
He locked the cart.
Stood up straight.
He didn’t look across the alley.
He stood for one beat.
The wind blew again, lifting the hair from his forehead.
He didn’t brush it away.
He stood there, hands at his sides.
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.
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 cart’s awning.
Not centered.
To the left.
But a little closer to the middle than yesterday—about half a finger’s width.
Its ear turned toward the repair shop.
Didn’t move.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, lifting a corner of the cart’s canvas tarp and letting it fall again.
The wind stopped.
The tarp stopped too.
In the fridge, the ginger was still there.
A very fine ring of water marks around the edge of the saucer had dried.
On the iron plate, two ginger sweet potato cakes in a paper bag, placed on the inner shelf of the cart.
The bag was folded neatly at one corner.
There was no other sound in the alley.
End of Chapter 23.