The sky wasn’t fully bright yet.
Lin Yinan pulled back the canvas tarp.
The buckles clinked against the iron frame.
In the unusually quiet alley, the sound carried farther than usual.
The soy milk shop hadn’t yet sent up steam.
The breakfast shop’s metal shutter was still closed.
He poured flour into the bowl, added water slowly, stirred.
The rhythm of his wrist was as steady as always, but he paused.
He opened the fridge and glanced at the ginger.
Still there, beside the sweet potatoes, side by side, a finger’s width apart.
He closed the fridge door.
There was movement above the awning—the sound of fur brushing against canvas.
He didn’t look up.
He knew Oil Seal was there.
As he finished mixing the first batch of batter, Sister Meiyun pushed open the metal shutter and stepped out.
She was five minutes earlier than usual.
In her hand was her tea, but in the other hand was something silver—small, hanging from her fingers, like a toy she’d picked up casually.
She set her teacup on the edge of the cart.
She placed the silver thing beside it.
No explanation.
Lin Yinan glanced at it.
Didn’t ask.
He kept pouring batter.
The copper molds began to heat.
The first customers hadn’t arrived yet.
The alley was quiet, save for the faint hiss of the molds warming.
The repair shop’s metal shutter hadn’t been pulled up yet.
Jiang Shoushi stood behind the door, hand on the handle.
She didn’t pull it.
She listened to sounds from the alley—the faint hiss of the copper molds heating, the soft sound of batter pouring into the round wells, the occasional clink of metal buckles against the iron frame.
She didn’t step out.
She stood there behind the door, listening.
She didn’t know she was listening.
She only knew that this morning, she’d arrived earlier than usual.
Sister Meiyun looked down at the silver thing.
She pressed it, a very light click.
Lin Yinan was flipping cakes, not looking up.
“What is that?” “Stopwatch.” “What are you timing?” “Don’t know.” She paused.
“But today it’s 8:47.” She didn’t explain who “8:47” was.
Lin Yinan didn’t ask.
But when he poured the next batch of batter, the bottom of the measuring cup tapped the rim of the bowl—something he wouldn’t have done before.
Sister Meiyun didn’t speak.
She lifted her tea and took a sip.
The first customers trickled in.
The man in the suit stopped in front of the cart.
“Two custard.” Lin Yinan flipped, bagged, took payment.
His movements were as steady as always.
The man took the paper bag, didn’t leave immediately.
He opened it and glanced inside.
“You didn’t make that one today?” “…Which one?” “The one from yesterday.
The orange one.” Lin Yinan’s hand froze mid-air.
“…Yesterday’s was sweet potato.” “Not today?” “Not today.” The man didn’t press.
He walked off with the bag.
But after a couple of steps, he turned back and said, “If you have it tomorrow, save one for me.” Then he left.
Lin Yinan stood behind the cart, still holding the tongs.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley.
He set down the tongs, opened the fridge, and looked at the remaining sweet potato mash.
There was still a little left.
The ginger flavor had already seeped in.
He covered it with a damp cloth and closed the fridge door.
Then he kept pouring batter.
Next batch.
And the next.
Around noon, Jiang Shoushi walked out of the repair shop.
She stopped at the doorway, didn’t cross the street.
She stood on the threshold.
Her gaze crossed the alley and landed on the cart.
Lin Yinan was pouring batter, not looking up.
Then she noticed something on the edge of the cart—a silver lid.
It was a thermos, its cap slightly ajar, mouth facing up.
It wasn’t his.
He wouldn’t have put that there before.
She looked away and turned back into the repair shop.
Didn’t look a second time.
But after she stepped inside, she didn’t start working right away.
She stood in front of the workbench, hand resting on the edge of the toolbox, lingering there for an extra beat.
The apprentice crouched beside her, loosening a bolt.
He looked up mid-turn.
“Boss, you overslept today?” Jiang Shoushi didn’t move.
“…What?” “Your shutter’s usually open earlier.” She didn’t answer.
She crouched down, grabbed a wrench, and started loosening another bolt.
But she’d picked a 12.
The bolt was a 14.
The apprentice saw it.
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
He said nothing.
Afternoon, the quietest time on the street, an older woman stopped in front of the cart.
She wasn’t a regular.
Lin Yinan had seen her a few times—wearing a light gray hat, buying and leaving without chatting.
Today she bought one red bean.
Opened the bag, took a bite, chewed.
Then she said: “Good thing I paused yesterday.” Lin Yinan was flipping a cake.
The tongs stopped mid-air.
“…Hm?” “I wasn’t supposed to take this road.” She took another bite.
“My phone rang halfway.
I stopped to answer it.” She chewed.
“The light was red.” She didn’t say “that car would have hit me.” Didn’t say “almost.” Didn’t say “thank goodness.” She just stood there, folded the paper bag neatly, and put it in her pocket.
“I’ll take another one today.” She left.
Lin Yinan stood behind the cart, tongs still in hand.
Sister Meiyun stood at the breakfast shop entrance, holding her tea.
She didn’t walk over.
She just stood there, a few steps away, watching him.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley.
Lin Yinan flipped the next cake.
No one had ordered it.
He just flipped it.
Then he set that cake aside.
Didn’t bag it.
Didn’t fold the corner.
Didn’t put it on the iron plate.
He placed it on the edge of the cart, beside the thermos.
Like someone who hadn’t yet decided where to go.
Sister Meiyun glanced down at that cake.
Didn’t speak.
She pressed the stopwatch.
A very light click.
The next morning.
Day two.
Sister Meiyun walked out with her tea.
She stood beside the cart, said nothing.
Jiang Shoushi passed by.
Didn’t stop.
Didn’t look at him.
Didn’t look at the menu.
Just passed, like any normal morning.
Sister Meiyun glanced down at her apron pocket.
Didn’t press.
She raised her tea and took a sip.
After a while, she spoke.
“Today, 8:46.” Lin Yinan was pouring batter, not looking up.
But after he finished, he stood there and set down the measuring cup.
Day three.
Jiang Shoushi passed by.
Sister Meiyun stood at the breakfast shop entrance, tea in hand.
She glanced down at her apron pocket.
Didn’t press.
“Today, 8:48.” Lin Yinan was flipping cakes.
He didn’t stop.
But after he flipped, he didn’t put down the tongs.
He held them, for a while.
Sister Meiyun didn’t say “later than yesterday.” Didn’t say “she paused today.” She just said a number.
Then she set down her teacup, turned, and walked back into her shop.
After a few steps, she stopped.
She didn’t turn around.
She said nothing.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley.
She walked through the metal shutter.
It slid down slowly behind her, making a sound of metal scraping.
Lin Yinan stood behind the cart.
He looked down at his hands, like they belonged to someone else.
He wasn’t sure when he’d picked up the tongs.
Evening.
Inside the repair shop.
Jiang Shoushi stood in front of the workbench.
She’d changed wrenches three times again today.
She hung the last one back on the wall and didn’t turn off the light right away.
She stood there, looking at the window.
Outside the window was the alley.
Across the alley was the cart.
She stared at that side for a while before realizing her hand was resting on the drawer handle.
Second drawer on the right.
She didn’t pull it open.
She left her hand there for an extra beat.
Then she drew her hand back.
Turned off the light.
Walked to the door.
Before pulling down the shutter, she stood by the entrance, looking across the alley.
The cart was already covered.
The canvas hid whatever was inside.
But she knew there were two things on the edge of the cart.
One was the thermos, its cap slightly ajar.
The other was a brown paper bag, with a cake inside.
She didn’t walk over.
The metal shutter came all the way down with a very light metallic click.
She stood inside, not leaving right away.
The wind came through the gap.
She stood there, hand on the door handle, lingering for an extra beat.
The street went dark.
The breakfast shop had long since closed.
The soy milk shop’s steam had stopped rising.
The garbage truck had come and gone.
Lin Yinan was packing up.
The copper molds were washed and set upside down on the rack.
The steel bowls were stacked.
The change box was closed.
He reached into his apron pocket and felt the two notes.
The first: “The gravity is off.” The second: “The second one.” Their edges had grown soft from his touch.
He took them out, unfolded them, glanced at them.
Then folded them back and put them in his pocket.
He pulled down the canvas tarp, locked the cart.
Stood up straight and walked a few steps toward the mouth of the alley.
Then he stopped.
He heard a sound—the repair shop’s shutter lock clicking shut.
Twice.
A three-second pause.
A third click.
He hadn’t counted.
He’d heard it.
He stood there.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, lifting the hem of his shirt.
The night swallowed his footsteps.
Oil Seal sat on the awning.
Not centered.
One notch to the left.
Its gaze was turned toward the repair shop.
Before Sister Meiyun had closed up, it had jumped down from the awning and walked to the repair shop entrance.
It didn’t meow.
Didn’t scratch the door.
Just sat down, facing the crack between the shutter and the ground.
Like someone waiting for something.
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 5.