The sky wasn’t fully bright yet.
Lin Yinan opened the refrigerator.
Cold air rushed out.
His hand paused inside for a moment before touching the bag of sweet potatoes.
Sister Meiyun had pushed them in yesterday—red-and-white striped plastic, the opening tied with a loose knot still dusted with flour.
She’d said when she pushed them in: “I bought too many.
Help me eat them.” He hadn’t answered.
He’d just put them in the fridge.
This morning he took them out.
Three of them, medium-sized, the skins still with dried earth clinging.
He washed, steamed, and mashed them.
Not fast, but steady.
Halfway through mashing, he paused.
Next to the gas stove was a piece of ginger.
He hadn’t bought it.
He didn’t remember putting it there.
Maybe it was left over from Sister Meiyun’s breakfast prep last week, maybe Granny had stuffed it in before, maybe he’d bought it for boiling water and forgotten.
He stood there, still holding the masher, looking at that piece of ginger.
Then his hand reached for it on its own.
Peeled it.
Grated it.
Mixed it into the sweet potato mash.
One small spoonful.
He tasted it.
Too spicy.
The ginger stung his nose awake.
He didn’t pour it out.
He covered it with a damp cloth and put the steel bowl in the fridge.
He didn’t know why he hadn’t poured it out.
When the copper molds were set on the stove, Sister Meiyun walked out with her tea.
She set the cup on the edge of the cart, glanced at the bowl of sweet potato mash, then at him.
“What did you add today?” “…Ginger.” Sister Meiyun raised an eyebrow.
She didn’t say “You’re making it this spicy first thing in the morning.” She set down her teacup and reached out her hand.
“Give me a bite.” Lin Yinan didn’t ask why.
He opened the fridge, wrapped one up, and handed it to her.
Sister Meiyun took it, didn’t examine it first, bit right in.
Chewed for a long time.
Her expression went from “just trying it” to “hmm…” gradually, then her brow furrowed slightly before relaxing again.
She swallowed, looked down at the cake in her hand, as if confirming something.
“…Too spicy.” Lin Yinan: “Mm.” “But it warms you up.” Lin Yinan didn’t speak.
Sister Meiyun took another bite.
Chewed more slowly this time.
After swallowing, she looked at him.
“You knew it was too spicy, didn’t you?” “…Mm.” “Then why did you keep it?” He didn’t answer.
Sister Meiyun looked at him for a while, then put the remaining cake into a paper bag, not returning it to him.
She picked up her tea and turned back toward the breakfast shop.
After two steps, she stopped and said without turning around: “You’re not sure yourself whether it’s good or not.” She walked through the metal shutter.
The copper molds began to heat.
Batter poured in, making that very faint sound like dried wood cracking.
The first customers trickled in.
The man in the suit bought two custard ones.
The middle schooler bought one red bean, eating it as he walked, his backpack bouncing behind him.
The mother pushing the stroller bought one custard and one red bean.
The old man cycled past without stopping, calling out, “Got taro today?” “No.” “Tomorrow?” “Maybe.” While selling the cakes, Lin Yinan would pause to look at the bowl of sweet potato mash.
He wasn’t making them into cakes.
He just let it sit there.
The heat from the copper molds rose, and he could smell a hint of ginger mixed with the flour aroma, like someone standing at the door who hadn’t decided whether to come in yet.
Close to noon, he was washing the copper molds.
When he got to the third well, he stopped.
Granny passed by every day.
Today she hadn’t.
His hand had already put the mold down.
He turned off the fire, a little faster than usual.
He untied his apron and hung it on the hook on the side of the cart.
He opened the fridge and took out the bowl of sweet potato mash.
Wrapped one up.
Folded a corner of the paper bag.
Put it in his pocket.
Then he stepped out from behind the cart.
Oil Seal sat on the awning, watching him walk away.
Didn’t follow.
But its gaze turned toward the repair shop, its ear twitching in that direction.
The end of the alley was empty.
He kept walking, to the very end of the alley, by the banyan tree.
Granny sat on the steps, her right hand pressed against her left knee.
She wasn’t looking at him, wasn’t waiting for anyone.
She was just sitting there, like a stone the wind had blown into a corner.
He didn’t crouch down in front of her.
He crouched beside her, a person’s distance away.
He took the paper bag from his pocket, opened it, and took out the cake.
The smell of ginger spread in the wind.
He didn’t hand it to her.
He gently placed it in her open palm.
Granny looked down at the cake.
It was still warm.
The edge was slightly burnt.
She didn’t speak.
She took a bite.
Chewed for a long time.
The ginger must have hit her, because she frowned.
“…Too spicy.” Lin Yinan: “Mm.” She took another bite.
“…But it warms you up.” He didn’t answer.
After she’d taken three bites, she looked up at him.
“You don’t talk much.” “…Mm.” “That’s good.” He didn’t realize he was being praised.
His gaze fell on her knee.
Her hand was still pressing there.
He looked at it, didn’t ask.
Granny took another bite of the cake.
Chewed more slowly this time.
The alley was very quiet, just the wind rustling the banyan leaves.
She suddenly spoke, not looking at him, as if talking to the cake.
“You used to spend time with old people, didn’t you.” Lin Yinan’s fingers twitched.
“…Mm.” “I can tell.” He didn’t respond.
But the way he was crouching there made him remember.
By Grandmother’s bedside.
He’d crouched there, not speaking.
Grandmother had said: “Just stay like this.” Just that one sentence.
Nothing more.
He’d never told anyone about it.
He didn’t know why it came back to him now.
He stood up.
Didn’t help her up.
He rearranged the boxes on the cart—heavier ones on the bottom, lighter ones on top.
When she came tomorrow, she wouldn’t have to bend as far to reach them.
Then he walked over to Granny and paused.
She looked at him.
He didn’t reach out his hand.
She stood up slowly.
Didn’t rush.
Her knee made a sound, like an old tree bending in the wind and straightening again.
She steadied herself on the stair railing, then walked to the cart on her own and sat down.
Not particularly graceful, but every step was without hesitation.
“Go slower.” Lin Yinan pushed the cart, slowing his pace just a little.
“There’s a dip here.” He steered around it.
“Left.
The road on the left is flatter.” He turned onto the left road.
“You should relax your shoulders when you push.
They’ll ache tomorrow if you don’t.” He didn’t reply, but his shoulders did relax a little.
As they passed a corner, Granny suddenly fell quiet.
The wind blew in from the mouth of the alley, lifting a few strands of her gray-white hair.
She looked ahead, not at him, and after a while spoke.
“What happened to your grandmother later?” Lin Yinan’s hands gripped the cart handles.
He didn’t speed up, didn’t slow down.
He just pushed.
“…She passed.” “How long ago?” “A long time.” Granny didn’t say anything more.
She nodded, like someone who already knew the answer and was just confirming it.
As the cart passed the repair shop entrance, the metal shutter was only open a crack.
Jiang Shoushi stood behind the gap, holding a wrench, but not working on anything.
She watched Lin Yinan push Granny past, saw the half-eaten cake in Granny’s hand.
The color was different.
Not red bean, not custard.
It was dark orange.
Her gaze fell on that color and didn’t move away immediately.
Lin Yinan didn’t turn his head.
The cart’s speed didn’t speed up or slow down.
He just kept going forward.
Jiang Shoushi stood behind the crack in the shutter, watching until he turned into the other end of the alley before putting the wrench down.
She didn’t ask.
No one asked why she was standing there.
The afternoon crowd was light.
Lin Yinan returned to the cart, relit the fire, and kept selling.
The man in the suit passed by in the afternoon, paused, and glanced at the blackboard.
“…New flavor today?” “Mm.” He bought one.
Didn’t eat it on the spot, put it in his suit pocket and left.
The middle schooler passed by after school and saw the small blackboard next to the menu that read “Today: Ginger Sweet Potato.” “Ginger?!” “Mm.” He hesitated for three seconds.
“…Spicy?” “A little.” He bought one.
Took a bite, squinted, like a kid who’d just opened a mystery package and wasn’t sure whether to laugh or not.
He coughed and chewed, swallowed, then paused.
“…It warms you up.” He ran off.
Backpack bouncing behind him.
Around three in the afternoon, Lin Yinan was pouring a new batch of batter.
When he looked up, his gaze just crossed the edge of the cart—Jiang Shoushi walked out of the repair shop.
She didn’t look at him.
She walked to the side of the cart and paused.
Then she left.
He didn’t look down.
He was pouring the batter.
It wasn’t until that batch of cakes had been flipped that he glanced at the edge of the cart.
There was a glass jar there now.
Lid tightened.
Inside was a small piece of ginger, washed, skin already peeled.
The cut was clean, no jagged edges.
He’d used that kind of tool before; he knew what kind of knife had been used.
No note.
No signature.
No explanation.
He picked up the glass jar and turned it over to look at the bottom—no label, no mark.
He held it in his hand, the cool glass against his palm.
He stood there for a long time.
The wind blew, lifting a corner of the cart’s canvas tarp and letting it fall again.
Sister Meiyun walked out with her empty cup and saw him looking at the jar.
“What’s that?” “I don’t know.” “You don’t know why she put it there?” “…” “The cakes you made today—they had ginger in them, right?” “…Mm.” “So she gave you a piece of ginger.” “…Mm.” “She’s telling you ‘I saw it.'” “…” Sister Meiyun took a sip from her already empty cup, turned, and walked back into the breakfast shop.
After two steps, she stopped and said without turning around: “You two are really strange.” She walked through the metal shutter.
It slid down slowly behind her, hiding half the storefront.
The alley grew quiet.
Just the very faint sound of the copper molds contracting as they cooled.
Lin Yinan looked down at the glass jar.
He turned it once, then opened the fridge.
There were still two sweet potatoes in the fridge.
Leftover.
He’d covered them with a damp cloth.
He first took the ginger out of the jar and placed it beside those two sweet potatoes, side by side, a finger’s width apart.
Then he washed the glass jar and set it upside down on the drying rack.
He closed the fridge door.
He didn’t put the jar away in the cabinet.
It stayed right there.
He didn’t look back at the repair shop.
Didn’t look at the shutter that had already been pulled down.
He pulled down the cart’s canvas tarp, locked the cart, and stood there looking at the alley for a moment.
Oil Seal jumped down from the awning and walked ahead.
Not too close, not too far—about three paces.
At the mouth of the alley, it stopped and sat down, like a stone placed in the middle of the road.
Lin Yinan walked past it.
Didn’t stop.
But after he passed, his steps slowed by half a beat.
Then he turned into the deeper part of the alley.
The night swallowed his footsteps.
The repair shop’s metal shutter was already down.
But the light inside was still on.
Through the gap in the door, there was a thin line of light, like the crease left after folding a piece of paper.
In the fridge, next to the sweet potatoes, there was now a piece of ginger.
In the same spot.
Oil Seal sat in front of the repair shop.
Not looking at the repair shop, not looking at the alley.
Just sitting.
The wind blew, lifting a corner of the cart’s canvas tarp and letting it fall again.
Its ear twitched, ever so slightly.
Very soft.
End of Chapter 4.