The sky wasn’t fully bright yet.
The fog had cleared.
Light came through the mouth of the alley, thin and pale, like a sheet of cloth that had just been washed and wasn’t quite dry.
The repair shop’s metal shutter was open.
Jiang Shoushi stood at the entrance.
She was more than ten minutes earlier than usual, but her body wasn’t in a hurry.
It had simply woken up and brought her here.
She stood in the doorframe, not walking inside right away.
Across the alley, the cart’s canvas tarp was already pulled back, white steam rising from the copper molds, the flame almost invisible in the morning light.
She glanced at it.
Then she walked into the repair shop.
A row of fluorescent lights came on, their low hum especially clear in the quiet alley.
There were no work orders today.
She stood there.
Then she walked into the storeroom, took down the screw box, opened the lid, and counted them.
Counted the washers too.
Put them back.
As she opened the storeroom door, she heard the sound from across the alley.
Batter poured into the copper molds.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Stopped.
She stood there, still holding a screw in her hand.
The sixth one didn’t come.
She put the screw back in the box and closed the storeroom door.
Walked back to the workbench, picked up a rag, and started wiping the dustless surface.
Left to right.
One, two, three wipes.
At the brightest part of the morning, the soy milk shop’s steam had dispersed.
The breakfast shop’s metal shutter was half open; Sister Meiyun stepped out with her tea.
She stood beside the cart, glanced down at the iron plate.
Red bean, custard, ginger sweet potato.
Two of each.
She didn’t speak.
Took a sip of tea.
The man in the suit bought two custard ones; when he took the paper bag, he glanced at the iron plate and didn’t ask about taro today.
The middle schooler bought a red bean one, eating 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.
Jiang Shoushi crouched in front of an old car, loosening a bolt.
The wrench turned once, twice, three times.
Sounds from across the alley came through the gaps in the copper molds——the clink of cakes being picked up with tongs, the crinkle of paper bags being folded, the clatter of change dropping into the box.
She heard them.
Her fingers didn’t stop.
But on the fourth turn, she was half a beat slower than the first three.
Then she kept turning.
Fifth.
Sixth.
The rhythm returned.
At noon, wind poured in from the mouth of the alley, growing warmer.
Sunlight came from directly overhead, shrinking the cart’s shadow to a stub under the wheels.
Two ginger sweet potato cakes remained on the far right of the iron plate, their crusts already turned from golden to light brown, edges slightly collapsed.
No one bought them.
The wind blew, lifting a corner of the paper bag, then letting it fall.
Jiang Shoushi walked out of the repair shop.
She didn’t cross the street.
She stood at the entrance, holding nothing.
The wind came through, lifting the hair from her forehead.
Her gaze swept across the opposite iron plate, and she saw the two cakes still there.
Then she turned and walked back inside.
In the afternoon, sunlight slanted into the alley, cutting the asphalt into two halves.
The middle schooler passed by on his way home, glanced at the iron plate, didn’t buy, and ran off.
The old man cycled past, slowed down, didn’t stop.
Jiang Shoushi sat at the workbench, filling out a form.
Her handwriting was neat.
After finishing, she sat there.
Wind came through the door, cool.
Her gaze drifted toward the window, peripheral vision sweeping the edge of the opposite iron plate.
The two cakes were still there.
Evening.
The sky began to darken.
The breakfast shop’s shutter was closed.
The soy milk shop’s shutter was closed.
The garbage truck had come and gone.
From across the alley came the sound of the canvas tarp being pulled down.
Buckles fastened.
One, two.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley; the tarp billowed once, then settled.
Then footsteps, heading deeper into the alley, fading, swallowed by the night.
Jiang Shoushi stood at the workbench, a wrench in her hand.
She listened until the footsteps were gone.
Then she hung the wrench back on the wall, one by one.
14 mm.
12 mm.
Open-end.
Box-end.
Folded the cloth.
She walked to the entrance, reached for the edge of the metal shutter.
The track groaned low as the shutter came down, its edge meeting the ground, clicking into the frame.
She gripped the lock.
Turned it once.
Her fingers paused on the lock.
Released.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley.
She stood there.
Across the alley, the cart was already covered, the tarp flat and neat.
The white cloth still hung from the iron hook, its edges frayed, folded into four.
The inner shelf was hidden by the tarp, but she knew something was still there.
She didn’t walk over.
She turned and walked toward the mouth of the alley.
Her footsteps on the asphalt——dry, steady.
Then they faded, swallowed by the night.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, lifting a corner of the cart’s canvas tarp, then letting it fall.
Oil Seal sat between the cart and the repair shop.
Tail wrapped around its front paws.
Not centered.
One notch to the left.
Closer to the middle than yesterday.
The wind stopped.
The tarp stopped too.
There was no other sound in the alley.