The sky wasn’t fully bright yet.
He didn’t know when he’d fallen asleep.
When he woke, his palms were warm, as if they’d been holding something, but now they were empty.
He sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at his hands.
His knuckles were faintly red, like he’d been gripping something hard.
When he stood up, there was still something in his ears—not a sound.
A rhythm.
Like an echo that hadn’t quite faded.
He walked into the kitchen.
The thermos was still on the counter.
Cleaned.
Its cap was off, turned upside down on the drying rack.
He hadn’t put it away in the cabinet.
He opened the refrigerator.
His hand didn’t reach for the flour.
It reached on its own for the bag of sweet potatoes at the very bottom.
He’d almost forgotten it was there.
He took them out, washed them, steamed them, mashed them.
His movements were as steady as always, but halfway through mashing, he paused to smell.
Not the sweet potatoes.
Another smell, mixed in with the steam, like something not yet formed but already on its way.
He didn’t try to identify it.
He just kept mashing.
Then he covered the bowl with a damp cloth and put it in the fridge.
As he closed the door, he saw the ginger still there.
Beside the sweet potatoes, side by side, a finger’s width apart.
He didn’t move it.
He walked out of the kitchen.
The sky had brightened.
The wind in the alley hadn’t fully woken yet.
The soy milk shop’s steam was just beginning to rise, white and soft, seeping through the gaps in the tin roof.
Lin Yinan walked to the cart and pulled back the canvas tarp.
The metal buckles clinked against the iron frame, the sound echoing in the alley for a moment before falling quiet.
He took out yesterday’s batter from the fridge.
There was still a little left, not much, but enough for one more.
He poured it into the copper mold.
No one had ordered it.
He just made it.
The batter slowly rose in the mold.
He didn’t flip it, just let it bake, and started mixing a fresh batch of batter.
As the copper molds were set on the burner, there was movement above the awning—the sound of fur brushing against canvas.
He didn’t look up.
But he knew Oil Seal was there—one notch to the left.
Facing the repair shop.
The repair shop’s metal shutter rolled up.
A row of fluorescent lights came on, humming very low.
Jiang Shoushi walked in and changed into her coveralls.
Her movements were the same as every day: hung up her jacket, tied her hair back carelessly, walked to the workbench and flipped open the work order.
One today.
Engine noise.
An older car.
She looked at it for three seconds, put down the sheet, and walked over to the car.
Opened the hood.
Reached in, ran her fingers along the belt.
Her fingers paused on one of the belts—not where the noise was.
But she touched it.
She pulled her hand back and turned toward the tool wall.
She knew she needed the 14 mm wrench.
Her hand reached out.
Took the 12.
Held it.
Didn’t move.
Two seconds.
She looked down at her hand, like it belonged to someone else.
The 14 was right next to it, only one notch away.
She didn’t switch immediately.
The apprentice crouched in the corner, organizing the toolbox.
He heard his boss pause at the tool wall—not her usual pause.
A longer one.
He looked up.
She was standing there, holding the 12.
The 14 was beside it.
She hadn’t moved.
From outside in the alley came a sound.
Iron tongs touching a copper mold.
Clink—an extremely light metallic click, carrying across the street, like a rhythm accidentally dropped.
Jiang Shoushi’s fingers twitched.
She hung the 12 back.
Picked up the 14.
But when she hung the 12 back, it was off by a centimeter.
She saw it.
She didn’t correct it.
She crouched down and began to disassemble the engine.
First bolt.
The 14 fit.
Two turns.
The feel was right.
But she loosened it.
Tightened it again.
Loosened it.
Tightened again.
Only on the third try did she torque it down.
She paused.
Looked at that bolt.
Before, she’d have done it in one go.
She moved on to the second bolt.
Her rhythm was right, her movements steady.
Her hand ran along the cylinder head, found the next bolt, turned it.
Third.
Fourth.
Her hands were steady.
The apprentice crouched in the corner, removing a tire.
He didn’t look up.
But he noted it—the first bolt today had taken three tries.
All the others were normal.
Only that one.
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.
A gray-green sedan pulled up at the repair shop entrance.
The engine didn’t shut off.
The door opened, and a middle-aged man stepped out.
He didn’t call out “Boss,” didn’t peer around.
He walked straight into the repair shop, like he’d been there many times before.
He walked to the workbench and placed a set of keys on the counter.
“Left these last time.
Came to pick them up.” Jiang Shoushi was behind the hood.
She heard the voice but didn’t look up right away.
Two beats passed.
“…What keys?” The man looked at her, as if confirming she wasn’t joking.
“I left my spare keys here when you changed my belt last week.” Jiang Shoushi’s hand stopped inside the engine bay.
“…Oh.” She came out from behind the hood, walked to the workbench, and pulled open the first drawer.
A set of keys lay inside.
She picked them up and handed them to him.
The man took them, held them in his hand, but didn’t leave immediately.
“…You okay today?” Jiang Shoushi: “…Hm?” The man: “Nothing.
Just asking.” He put the keys in his pocket and walked out.
Jiang Shoushi crouched back down in front of the hood.
Her hand reached into the engine bay and found the next bolt.
Halfway through turning it, her gaze drifted toward the entrance.
The shelf was empty.
She pulled her gaze back.
Kept turning the bolt.
Shortly after noon, Sister Meiyun walked out of the breakfast shop.
She wasn’t carrying tea today.
She was carrying a clean white cup instead.
She crossed the alley to the repair shop entrance.
She didn’t go in, just leaned against the doorframe.
Jiang Shoushi looked up from under the hood.
A strand of hair had fallen loose beside her face.
“Tea?” “…No need.” Sister Meiyun: “Mm.” She set the cup on the shelf by the door.
As she set it down, her gaze paused on Jiang Shoushi’s hands—not looking at her face, but at her hands.
Then she turned and walked back to the breakfast shop.
No second word.
Jiang Shoushi looked down and kept working on the car.
But she saw it.
Two in the afternoon.
The quietest time in the alley.
The sun slanted in, cutting the repair shop floor into two halves, one bright and one dark.
Jiang Shoushi had already finished the engine.
The belt was replaced.
Torque was set.
Calibration done.
She closed the hood with a solid thud—the sound was clean, no vibration.
She stood at the workbench, filling out the work order.
Her handwriting was neat, as if written with a ruler.
Date.
License plate.
Repair items.
Every character sat neatly on the page.
She wrote the last character and paused, pen tip still on the paper.
Nothing more to write.
She set down the pen.
From the alley came the sound of a bicycle.
The chain was slightly loose, making a faint clicking noise.
The sound stopped at the repair shop entrance.
The old man dismounted, kicked the stand down, and walked inside.
He stood at the threshold between shadow and sunlight.
“How’d that wood work out?” “…Worked fine.” “Shelf sturdy?” “Sturdy.” The old man nodded.
He didn’t leave.
He stood there, like he was thinking of something.
After a while, he said, quite casually: “By the way.
That young man who sells the cakes—he asked me the day before yesterday if I had any wood left.” Jiang Shoushi’s hand rested on the workbench.
She didn’t move.
“…Hm?” “I told him no.” The old man didn’t add anything more.
He turned and walked back out, got on his bicycle, and pedaled toward the mouth of the alley.
The clicking of the chain grew fainter, then disappeared.
Jiang Shoushi stood at the workbench.
She watched the old man’s silhouette disappear at the alley’s end.
Then her gaze drifted past the window.
Across the alley.
At the edge of the cart.
There was a cake.
Not bagged.
Not on the iron plate.
Just sitting there, like someone who hadn’t yet decided where to go.
She didn’t look again.
She looked down at her hands.
Her right hand was holding a pen.
Not the one she’d just used for the work order.
Another one.
Blue, with a worn ring on the cap.
She didn’t remember when she’d picked it up.
She set the pen down, in the center of the workbench.
She stood there for a while.
Then she turned toward the tool wall.
The 12 was still off by a centimeter.
From morning till now, no one had moved it.
She stood in front of it, looking at it for a long time.
Very still.
She didn’t straighten it.
As she passed the shelf by the door, her hand hung at her side.
Her fingertips brushed the edge of the shelf—not deliberately.
Just passing.
She walked back to the workbench, reached for a rag, and wiped it clean.
She put the rag back in the sink, sat down, and slipped the work order into the folder.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley, lifting the hair from her forehead.
She didn’t move.
For a long time.
The street began to darken.
The soy milk shop’s metal shutter had been pulled down.
The breakfast shop’s lights were off.
The garbage truck had come and gone.
The alley held nothing but the wind and an occasional patch of light from a window.
The apprentice had left.
Only Jiang Shoushi remained in the repair shop.
She was putting away her tools.
Wrenches hung back on the wall one by one.
12.
Hung.
14.
Hung.
She stopped.
Stood in front of the tool wall.
The 12 was still off by a centimeter.
All day.
From morning to evening.
Off.
She reached out.
Straightened the wrench.
Back where it belonged.
One centimeter.
She stood there, looking at it.
Very still.
The wind came through the gap in the door.
Her fingers were still against the wrench.
The metal was cooler than her fingertips.
She could feel it.
She lowered her hand.
Turned and walked back to the workbench.
Opened the second drawer on the right.
She counted once.
Counted again.
Closed the drawer.
Turned off the light.
Walked to the door.
Pulled down the metal shutter.
The sound of metal locking echoed in the alley for a moment, then fell quiet.
She stood outside.
The alley was dark.
She didn’t look toward the cart.
But she stood there for one beat.
Didn’t leave right away.
Then she looked down.
The white cup was gone from the shelf by the door.
She stood there.
The wind came through the mouth of the alley.
She reached into the right pocket of her coveralls—it was bulging.
She felt a cup.
Clean.
White.
She didn’t remember when she’d picked it up.
She held it.
The cup was warm from her body heat.
The wrench had been cold.
She walked into the night.
The night swallowed her footsteps.
The repair shop’s lights went out.
The shutter was fully down.
The entire street went dark.
Oil Seal sat between the repair shop and the cart.
Not in the center.
One notch to the left.
For the first time.
The wind blew, lifting a corner of the cart’s canvas tarp and letting it fall again.
Its ear twitched, ever so slightly.
Not a sound.
A rhythm.
End of Chapter 6.