Chapter 378: The Noodles Went Untouched

The foot-care shop diagonally across from the alley mouth was already locked up, the price list on its glass washed pale by the streetlight. She did not walk east on the noodle shop's side of the street. She waited for the green light, crossed, and walked along the row of shops opposite.

A detour of a few dozen steps—she took it anyway. On March 18th, that car had come out of this opening; the photographer had stood under the pole at the alley mouth and waited eleven minutes. She had written both facts down on paper, and she carried them in her legs too—ever since, whenever she reached this intersection, her feet turned toward the other side on their own.

The red light was long. She stood at this end of the zebra crossing, watching the pharmacy's sign across the street, half its lights burnt out—only the left half of the character for "medicine" remained. A row of electric scooters sat by the door; one still had a rain poncho draped over its seat. A gust of wind lifted a corner of the poncho and let it fall back. Someone passed behind her, a sheet of cardboard balanced on one shoulder; its edge brushed her arm, and she sidestepped half a pace.

The light turned green. She walked.

The Old Town District was still hot at eight in the evening. At the repair stall someone was patching a tire, the smell of rubber cement drifting over on the breeze. The loudspeaker outside the small supermarket droned "eggs on special" without any conviction. Two women stood at a shop doorway holding a bundle of garlic scapes, splitting them between themselves, measuring length against length. A kid on a scooter was shouted at from behind by an adult; the scooter wobbled, and the kid planted a foot to steady it.

A water-delivery tricycle came out of the alley, loaded with blue barrels; their bottoms clanked against the steel frame. At the intersection it looked left, then right, before slowly edging across. She waited for it to pass.

She walked past the bus stop. A bus pulled in, its doors opened right in front of her, the step lowered, people got off, people got on. She stood still. The doors closed, the bus pulled away, its taillights dragging a smear of red forward.

Her phone was in her pocket. She took it out to check: 8:05 p.m. No new messages. The screen still sat on yesterday's 11:40 p.m. line, "Asleep yet?" with her reply below: "Asleep."

She tucked the phone back into her pocket and wound the cloth bag's strap half a turn tighter around her wrist. The corner of the volume inside the bag pressed against her forearm, one nudge with every step.

After walking a while, she started counting her steps, lost track after a hundred or so, and gave up. Her soles were thin; she could feel every loose brick underfoot. One brick tilted the moment she stepped on it, its edge exposing the cement. The first time she'd stepped on it, she remembered; after that she walked around it.

Halfway down the street, she glanced at her hand. The strap had pressed a white line into her palm; her fingers were clenched too tight and going numb. She loosened her grip and rewrapped it.

The plane tree leaves along the road were coated in dust; when the wind passed, they rustled very softly.

The copy shop was still open. Behind the glass door, the machine spat out pages one by one; the man inside pulled each one off, stacking it neatly on the pile. She slowed half a step at the entrance.

Lao Kan's enforcement application had been filed yesterday; tomorrow she'd wait for the window's response. The three forms for Qinghe still had blank columns waiting to take effect. And her bag still held the steamed bun He Xiufen had pressed on her—from yesterday. She'd never remembered to eat it.

He Xiufen had said at the stairway yesterday: come eat noodles tomorrow night, I'll save you two bowls.

She had not gone back.

At the foot of her building, someone under the streetlamp was breaking down cardboard boxes, tearing along the seams, flattening the pieces, stacking them against the wall. She passed the stack and went into the building entrance.

The stairwell light was sound-activated. She stamped her foot; the light came on. A large patch of plaster had fallen off the wall, exposing the white lime beneath. At the third-floor landing, she stamped again.

The key went in and turned a full circle and a half before the lock opened.

All the lights in the apartment were on. Zhi'an sat at the desk, workbook open, pen resting on the spine, untouched. Hearing the door, he turned; his chair scraped against the floor.

"Did he ask?"

She stood with one foot still half in her shoe, a hand braced on the shoe cabinet.

"He didn't ask."

"Did you ask?"

"I did."

Zhi'an didn't answer that. He stood, watching her set the cloth bag on the table, watching the zipper. He closed his workbook, tucked it under his arm, and walked toward his room. At the door he stopped. "There's water on the stove. I just boiled it." The door shut, not fully—a crack of light remained.

She unwound the strap from her wrist, unzipped the cloth bag, and drew out Volume Seven. Blue cloth cover, corners worn pale; the tear at the lower corner was still there. Holding it in both hands, she walked to the stack at the corner of the desk. One hand steadied the top; the other pushed up from beneath, sliding the volume in. She pushed twice before it went all the way to the back. The pile above settled down, the whole stack sinking slightly. The thin dust along its edge lifted; she wiped it with a finger and absently rubbed it onto the back of her hand.

Her father's hardcover notebook still lay open at the corner of the desk, from last night, turned to the two pages for March. She closed the cover and pressed it back into the cardboard box under the bed, fitted the lid on, pushed it in a little, and pressed her hand once on the lid before standing.

Volume Eight still sat on the table. She didn't touch it.

She fished the steamed bun bag out of the cloth bag. The bun had gone hard. She broke off half and set it on the pot lid, letting the pot's remaining warmth slowly soften it.

On the stove was still the half bowl of noodles from that afternoon; the broth had congealed. She picked it up and poured it out. The water in the pot was still warm. She cooked half a handful of noodles, brought it to a boil, added half a ladle of cold water, brought it to a boil again, and dished it out. There was nothing green in the bowl. She sprinkled in a few grains of salt, sat down, and ate. She finished most of it, then laid her chopsticks across the bowl.

There was light behind the crack in Zhi'an's door. She got up, carried the bowl to the sink, washed both bowls, and set them upside down on the rack.

"There's still some in the pot," she said toward the crack.

"I'm not eating." The voice inside was muffled. "Turn off the stove."

"It's off."

"Sleep."

The light behind the crack went out. She stopped at the door, hand lifting, landing on the doorframe—she didn't knock.

"Get some sleep," came the voice inside.

She lowered her hand. She'd taken two steps when she heard him turn over inside; the bedframe creaked once.

At nine o'clock, He Xiufen rolled up the shutter. The steel slats clattered upward one by one, all the way to the top, and stopped.

The man was sitting on the stone steps. One hand still in his pocket, the other resting on his knee, coat collar turned up. The light from the doorway spilled out and pressed his shadow flat beneath his feet, very short. He did not look back.

At 7:40 she had heard footsteps going out, and after that the alley had been empty. She'd run the abacus twice; the accounts wouldn't balance, so she'd closed it and sat just inside the door, listening. No voices—only once the sound of someone pushing a cart out through the alley, its chain clanking; after that, just wind. She'd pressed the dough under its damp cloth three times.

A man on an electric scooter came out of the alley, squeezed the brake, and planted a foot on the ground. "Director He, stove fixed?"

"Fixed."

"Cooking?"

"Just one bowl."

The scooter left. He Xiufen stood in the band of light at the door, the rag hung on the nail by the doorframe. Across the street, someone poked a head out a second-floor window, looked, then pulled it back in; the curtain drew shut.

"You sit there pretty steady."

"Director He."

"It's cold."

"I'll sit a while."

"Sit a while, then."

She went into the kitchen and lifted the damp cloth. The dough had been mixed that afternoon—enough for two bowls. The top layer under the cloth had dried a little; she pinched off a small piece, pressed it, and covered it again. She lit the burner but didn't turn on the exhaust fan. When the water boiled, she dropped in the noodles, cracked an egg into the pot, skimmed off the foam with a ladle, and scattered a pinch of scallions over it.

Her own bowl she filled sparsely, and she ate standing by the stove. Too salty. She didn't add water; she forced it down.

The remaining bowl she carried out on a rag, set it on the step beside him, and pulled the rag away; the bowl's bottom gave a soft "clack" against the stone.

"Noodles."

He looked up once.

"They're no good cold," she said. "In my shop, cold doesn't get topped up."

She didn't wait for his answer. She went back and wiped the stove. She rinsed the rag three times, wiped the stove edge again and again, and cleaned even the black ring under the iron wok. She did not look toward the door a second time.

After a while she filled a basin with water, carried it to the door, crouched down, and wiped the dust off the top two steps. When she came to the bowl, she worked around it and wiped the next step down. He drew his feet in, heels touching the wall.

Someone passed through the alley, footsteps slow, walking to the end and then turning back. The shop across the way closed its window halfway; the curtain came down. The clock on the wall reached 9:40.

There was movement on the steps. He stood up, bracing a hand on his knee as he rose.

He bent down, lifted the bowl with both hands, and moved it up two steps, setting it against the wall by the door. The broth swayed but didn't spill.

"I'll leave it here," he said. "Don't come out to get it."

He Xiufen hung the rag back on the stove edge.

"Go upstairs."

"Mm."

"That's not what I mean." She pulled the rag down and re-hung it. "The second-floor window. It's been dark all evening."

He didn't answer.

He walked toward the alley mouth, paused at the opening, glanced down the street twice, and turned out. His footsteps faded slowly through the alley.

She went out, picked up the bowl, and carried it back to the kitchen. The noodles were still full—not one bite taken. A thin film of oil floated on the surface; the egg lay sunk at the bottom. She set the bowl on the chopping board, found another bowl, and placed it upside down over the top. She didn't pour it out.

The shutter rolled all the way down, leaving only the light at the doorway burning.

9:50. She sat at the table, the desk lamp turned low, notebook open to a blank page, pen cap still on, phone face-down at the corner.

Downstairs someone was closing a window; the steel frame bumped shut—once, and a moment later, again.

Her phone lit up: the firm's group chat. Li Huilan had sent: "Tomorrow 8:30, I'll get in line at the window first." She read it, didn't reply, and turned the phone back over.

She tilted her head and looked at the stack at the corner of the desk. Volume Seven was at the very bottom, only a sliver of blue cloth showing, pressed so flat you couldn't tell which volume it was.

When her father wrote those two lines, the pen had slowed. He always dashed off people's names without care, but that "Lu" character—the vertical stroke on the right side dragged long, and only beneath it did he add the line about the Band-Aid. She hadn't seen it until she'd read it a second time last night.

On the night of September 19th last year, right below the noodle shop, she had asked him, "The sample submitter is surnamed Lu." He'd answered, "It's not time to lay it all out yet," and then, "When I can lay it out in court one day, you'll be the first person I read it to."

Tonight the paper lay open under the lamplight, and the first person to read it was her.

She had said, "You read it, and I'll ask everything." That line had gone unused tonight—he hadn't read a single word before she read those two lines herself.

Wind slipped through the crack in the window, lifting a corner of the notebook's page. She reached out and held it down.