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 apprentice arrived first at the repair shop.
He pulled up the metal shutter; the track groaned low, dragging through the quiet alley for a long moment, then stopped.
A row of fluorescent lights came on, their hum very low, like someone not fully awake.
He picked up a broom and started sweeping.
Dust came out from under the workbench, floated for a moment in the morning light, then was swept into the dustpan.
When he swept to the spot directly in front of the workbench, the broom caught.
He crouched down to look.
On the floor, there was a shallow scuff.
Not from a tool.
From a shoe.
Someone had stood there for a long time—long enough to leave this shape.
The heel area was slightly deeper, the edges smooth, like soil pressed down repeatedly.
The color was a shade darker than the surrounding tile.
Dust had filled it and been trampled in, filled it and been trampled in, over and over, until a fine powder had formed along the edges of the scuff, thin, like very fine sand.
He reached out and touched it.
The scuff was cooler than the tile beside it.
The heel marks were the most visible—two ovals, the left one slightly deeper than the right.
He crouched there, his hand beside the scuff, not measuring its depth, not counting its layers.
Just touching it.
Wind came through the door, lifting the hair from his forehead.
Then he stood up and kept sweeping.
The broom moved from left to right.
When it passed over the scuff, its edge curved slightly around it.
Not deliberately.
His body remembered where the dip was.
Dust settled back into the scuff—a thin layer, shallow.
The scuff remained, fainter than before.
He didn’t look back at it again.
At the cart, the tarp was already pulled back.
Lin Yinan walked to the inner shelf and saw the paper bag still there—one corner folded down, held in place by a small pebble.
Grayish-white, about the size of a thumbnail, a thin layer of grit on its surface, one edge angular—like it had been picked up from the edge of the asphalt.
The wind couldn’t move it.
He picked up the pebble.
It was cool in his palm, pressed against his skin, a rough texture.
He didn’t wipe it, didn’t turn it over to look at the other side.
He opened the small drawer beside the change box.
Inside: two slips of paper.
One wire ring.
One button.
And one empty corner—just large enough for a pebble.
He placed it inside, beside the wire ring, a finger’s width apart.
Closed the drawer.
Turned to get the flour.
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 started pouring the batter.
His wrist turned, the batter falling into the round wells, soft, like rain on dry earth.
Five.
The sixth well was empty.
He didn’t fill it.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool.
The morning customers trickled in.
The man in the suit bought two custard ones.
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.
The old man cycled past, slowed down, didn’t stop, rode on.
One ginger sweet potato cake remained, on the far right of the iron plate.
Its crust had already turned from golden to light brown.
Around noon, the wind grew warmer.
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.
Inside the repair shop, the apprentice was wiping tools.
He paused while wiping a wrench.
Turned his head and glanced at the floor in front of the workbench.
Dust had settled back into it, but the scuff was still there.
Light came through the door, slanting; the scuff was slightly darker than the surrounding tile, like a very shallow riverbed.
He didn’t crouch down to touch it.
He watched for a while.
Then he put the rag back in the sink and kept wiping the next wrench.
Jiang Shoushi crouched in front of the engine hood, loosening a bolt.
The wrench turned once, twice, three times.
Her position was a few steps away from the workbench.
She’d spent most of the day crouched by the car, not standing in front of the workbench.
The apprentice hadn’t told her about the floor.
She hadn’t asked.
Afternoon.
Sunlight shifted from overhead to the west, stretching the cart’s shadow longer.
The copper molds had cooled.
The flame was out.
The last ginger sweet potato cake remained on the iron plate, its crust a little drier, the collapse at the edges more pronounced.
Lin Yinan was washing the steel bowls.
Water splashed loudly, white steam rising, turning into translucent threads in the afternoon sunlight.
When he reached the third bowl, he paused.
Turned his head and glanced at the iron plate.
The last ginger sweet potato cake was still there.
He kept washing.
No customers passed by.
The alley held only the wind.
Evening.
Light slanted in from the mouth of the alley, spreading a thin layer of pale orange across the asphalt.
The breakfast shop’s metal shutter was closed.
The soy milk shop’s metal shutter was closed.
The garbage truck had come and gone.
Lin Yinan started 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.
He walked to the iron plate, picked up the last ginger sweet potato cake with the tongs, and put it in a paper bag, folding one corner down.
He didn’t put it back on the shelf.
He opened the fridge and placed it beside the ginger on the small saucer.
The paper bag stood upright, leaning against the fridge wall.
Closed the fridge door.
Then 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.
The wind blew again, lifting the hair from his forehead.
He stood for one beat.
Then he turned and walked into the deeper part of the alley.
The night swallowed his footsteps.
Inside the repair shop, the fluorescent 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.
Box-end.
After she finished, she stood there.
The floor was beneath her feet.
The scuff.
The one the apprentice had seen this morning.
She stood there, hands at her sides, like she did at the end of every day.
Wind came through the gap in the door, cool, lifting the hair from her forehead.
She didn’t look down.
She stood for a while.
Then she turned off the light.
Walked to the door.
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.
Wind came through the mouth of the alley, cool.
She didn’t look across the alley.
She stood for one beat.
Then she turned and walked into the night.
Her footsteps on the asphalt, a few steps, fading, swallowed by the night.
The alley went dark.
Oil Seal sat between the cart and the repair shop.
Tail wrapped around its front paws.
Not centered.
One notch to the left.
But a little closer to the middle than yesterday—about a finger’s width.
Its ear turned toward the repair shop, then still.
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.
There was no other sound in the alley.
End of Chapter 25.