The sky wasn’t fully bright yet.
Lin Yinan pulled back the canvas tarp; the metal buckles clinked against the iron frame, the sound echoing briefly in the alley.
He fastened the tarp and turned to get the steel mixing bowl.
As he reached out, his mind was still on yesterday—the returned cake, the empty saucer, the line “163” written beneath it.
He didn’t realize he was pouring water.
When he looked down, he’d already added half a cup too much.
The flour was already in the bowl.
He paused for a beat.
He couldn’t scoop it back out.
All he could do was add more flour to bring back the ratio.
He did.
But his fingers were stiff against the measuring cup.
He stirred faster than usual.
The batter should have rested.
There was no time.
The first customers would be arriving soon.
When he lifted the whisk, the batter flowed off it a fraction of a second faster than normal.
The consistency was off—a little thin.
He knew it.
But there was no time to start over.
He poured the batter into the copper molds.
The first one came out crooked.
The batter didn’t hold its shape in the round well; it ran to the right side.
He nudged it back to center with the iron tongs, pressing a little harder with his thumb.
The molds began to heat.
Before the first batch was done, he stood behind the cart, watching the steam rise from under the lid of the copper molds.
He wiped his fingers on his apron.
His palms were damp.
There was movement above the awning—the sound of fur brushing against canvas.
He didn’t look up.
He knew Oil Seal was there.
The first customer arrived.
The man in the suit, same time every day.
“Two custard.” Lin Yinan opened the molds.
The cakes looked normal on top, puffed just right.
But when he flipped one over, he saw the bottom—the browning was darker on the right than on the left.
He saw it.
Still picked it up with the tongs.
Bagged it.
Handed it over.
When he took the money, he placed the change in the man’s palm without touching his fingers.
The man took the paper bag.
Opened it.
Took a bite.
Lin Yinan stood there, watching him.
The man chewed, swallowed, and glanced at him.
“Why are you staring at me today?” “No reason.” The man put the rest of the cake back in the bag and took another bite.
“It’s softer today.” Lin Yinan’s hand froze in midair.
“…Is that bad?” “No, not bad.” The man chewed.
“Just softer.
My kid likes them soft.
Make them like this tomorrow too.” He left without looking back.
Lin Yinan stood behind the cart, watching the man’s silhouette disappear at the mouth of the alley.
Make them like this tomorrow too.
He wiped his damp palm on his apron again.
The second customer was a mother pushing a stroller.
The baby was asleep inside.
“One custard.” Lin Yinan picked one—the one with the evenly browned bottom, the one he’d specially chosen.
Bagged it.
Handed it over.
The mother took the paper bag, didn’t look at the cake.
She glanced down at the baby, then looked up at him.
“Boss, you don’t look so good today.” “…I don’t?” “No.” She put the bag into the basket under the stroller.
“Did you not sleep well?” Lin Yinan didn’t know how to answer.
He had slept.
But he’d dreamed about cakes.
Dreamed someone returned one.
When he woke up, it was still dark.
His fingers still remembered the feel of it.
“It’s okay.” The mother didn’t press.
She adjusted the stroller.
“Your red bean cakes are really good.
I come every week.” She paused, looked down at the baby, then back up.
“If you’re tired, take a day off.
It’s fine.” She pushed the stroller away.
Lin Yinan stood there, still holding the tongs.
He didn’t move.
The wind blew through the mouth of the alley, lifting a corner of the canvas tarp and letting it fall again.
He stood for a while.
“…Thank you.” Very soft, as if talking to himself.
No one heard.
Around noon, the street grew quieter.
The soy milk shop’s steam had stopped rising.
The breakfast shop’s metal shutter was half pulled down.
The alley held nothing but the wind and the faint sound of the copper molds contracting as they cooled.
Lin Yinan crouched beside the cart, washing the molds.
The sound of water echoed in the alley.
He heard another sound—very faint, metal rolling across the ground.
Like something had fallen from a height, bounced a few times, and slowly come to a stop.
He looked up.
Oil Seal stood on the ground between the repair shop entrance and the cart.
In front of it lay a nut.
Black, crusted with dried grease.
Oil Seal looked down at the nut.
Then looked up at Lin Yinan.
It stretched out one front paw and nudged the nut forward.
It rolled half a turn and stopped beside the cart’s wheel.
Then it walked back under the awning.
Sat down.
One notch to the left.
Lin Yinan picked up the nut.
Turned it over.
There was a thin ring of wear along the edge.
Grease on it.
From the repair shop.
He set the nut on the edge of the cart.
Went back to washing the molds.
When he got to the third well, he paused.
He’d lost count.
He counted again.
Kept washing.
Afternoon.
The quietest time on the street.
A middle schooler stood in front of the cart.
His backpack was on the ground.
He didn’t order.
He stared at the menu for a long time.
Lin Yinan waited.
“You have taro on your menu.” “Yes.” “Not today?” “Not today.” The boy didn’t leave.
He kept looking at the menu.
“What about tomorrow?” Lin Yinan paused.
He thought about the man in the suit: “Make them like this tomorrow too.” He thought about the mother: “Take a day off, it’s fine.” He thought about the old man who always asked “Tomorrow?”—he’d always said he didn’t know.
But he thought about that bowl of batter that had gone wrong.
He thought about the six cakes with uneven edges that he’d set aside today.
He thought about the empty saucer.
“…Maybe tomorrow.” The boy looked up at him.
“Really?” “…Not sure.
But maybe.” The boy slung his backpack over his shoulder.
“Then I’ll come back tomorrow.” He turned and ran a step, then stopped and looked back.
“Save one for me, okay?” “…Okay.” He ran off, backpack bouncing behind him.
Lin Yinan stood behind the cart, watching the kid run away.
Save one for him.
He’d never saved one for anyone before.
People came and bought what he made.
When he sold out, he closed up.
He never held anything back.
But just now he’d said okay.
He looked down at his hands.
The tongs were still in his grip.
He wasn’t sure when he’d picked them up.
Evening.
The street began to darken.
The old man cycled past, braked, didn’t get off.
“Got taro today?” “No.” “Tomorrow?” “Maybe.” The old man looked at him.
Didn’t ask why.
He wobbled the bike, ready to ride off.
But after two meters, he stopped and turned back.
“That note—?” “…What?” “The person who wrote on it.” The old man wobbled in place.
“She came to my shop this afternoon.” Lin Yinan’s hand froze in midair.
“…What?” “Bought a small piece of wood.
Said she was making something.” The old man didn’t elaborate.
He looked at Lin Yinan, as if confirming something.
“She looked like she was thinking about something too.” He pedaled off, disappearing around the corner.
Lin Yinan stood there.
The wind from the mouth of the alley lifted the hem of his shirt.
She came to buy wood.
A small piece.
Said she was making something.
He stood there, still holding the tongs, not putting them down.
The street emptied.
The soy milk shop was closed.
The breakfast shop’s metal shutter was fully down.
Only the repair shop’s fluorescent light was still on, across the alley, like a small patch of daytime left behind.
Lin Yinan was packing up.
The molds were washed and set upside down on the rack.
The steel bowls stacked one by one.
The change box closed.
Then he walked to the edge of the cart and picked up those six cakes.
All the cakes with uneven edges from today.
He hadn’t sold them.
They’d sat on the edge of the iron plate all day.
He put them in a paper bag.
As his fingers touched the bag, he paused.
Then he folded one corner down.
He remembered the man in the suit saying, “You didn’t fold the corner today.” Now he did.
He walked across the alley and set the paper bag on the shelf by the repair shop entrance.
There were already things on the shelf—a few screws, a piece of spring.
The paper bag he’d left yesterday was still there too.
The bag was there, but the cake inside was gone.
He didn’t check who had taken it.
He set the new bag down beside the screws and the spring.
Then he turned and walked back to his cart.
Locked it.
Pulled down the canvas.
Stood beside the cart, looking across the alley.
The repair shop’s metal shutter was half down, the fluorescent light still on.
Inside, he could vaguely hear the clatter of a wrench.
He reached into his apron pocket.
Felt the notes.
Felt the nut.
The edges of the notes were crumpled from his touch.
He kept his hand in his pocket, holding them.
Then he walked into the alley.
After a few steps, he stopped.
He didn’t look back.
He stood in the darkness.
Wind came from behind.
His fingers loosened in his pocket.
Then clenched again.
Then he kept walking.
The night swallowed his footsteps.
Inside the repair shop.
Jiang Shoushi hung the wrench back on the wall.
Put away her tools.
Took off her gloves.
She walked to her workbench.
On the surface was a clean plate.
She’d washed it the day before last.
She hadn’t returned it.
Beside it lay a piece of red plastic—repaired, its edges smoothed down.
She picked up the fragment.
Looked at it for a while.
Then put it in her coverall pocket.
Not the toolbox.
Her pocket.
She turned off the light.
Walked to the door.
Before pulling the shutter down, she stood by the entrance, looking across the alley.
The cart was already covered.
The canvas hid whatever was inside.
But she knew a new bag had been added to the shelf.
She didn’t walk over to check.
The metal shutter came all the way down with a very light metallic click.
She stood there.
The fragment in her pocket pressed against the outside of her thigh.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley.
She didn’t look back at the shelf.
She walked into the night.
No one saw her put the fragment in her pocket.
No one saw those few seconds she stood there.
But Oil Seal saw.
It sat in front of the repair shop.
Not looking at the repair shop.
Not looking at the alley.
Just sitting.
Like some things no longer needed to be confirmed.
The wind blew, lifting a corner of the cart’s canvas tarp and letting it fall again.
Oil Seal’s ear twitched, ever so slightly.