The gray-tiled roofs of Yunjin Old Town peeked through the gaps in the leaves. I smoothed down my dress. Tsukago walked beside me, her hem swaying gently.
At the old town entrance, a stone arch bridge rose over the canal. Its surface had been worn glossy by the years. A black-canopied boat slid beneath the bridge.
On the bridge, a father bent low over an enormous stroller. It was a single molded shell, ten infants seated side by side inside. Their cries bounced off the stone.
His hands gripped the handlebar, his knuckles thick, the veins on the back of his hands bulging with each shove. He braced a knee against the undercarriage, ground his heel into the stone, and pushed on.
Sweat had soaked through the back of his shirt. The fabric clung to his shoulder blades. The father never looked back. He gripped the handlebar tighter and hauled the stroller over the crest, step by step.
As I crossed the bridge, I noticed a man crouched on the bank below. He was squatting low, his laptop bag resting on the flagstones by his feet. When he stood, he nearly collided with a tourist behind him. He stepped back half a pace and dipped his head.
Tsukago stopped walking. "Sister, look over there." He lifted his head. When he saw us, he froze. "Little misses. You're here too." He wore a dark blue shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. That faded keychain still dangled from the zipper.
"As a girl, I'd say the old town isn't that big. You walk around and run into people." I walked down off the bridge. Zhao Dayong switched his laptop bag to his other hand. "Look at that father. Pushing ten kids and still walking so steady."
"Ten kids. One father." Zhao Dayong glanced down at his laptop bag. The three of us walked deeper into the old town side by side. The flagstone path echoed dully underfoot.
At the mouth of an alley, a person in a cartoon mascot head shoved a black USB drive into another person's palm. The voice beneath it was squeezed low. "Everything's on there. Your cut's guaranteed."
The recipient lifted a satchel from the ground, unzipped it. Inside, stacks of cash filled the bag, the bands still unbroken. He zipped it shut, switched the bag to his other hand, and walked off fast.
——I collect the truths this society devours people with. A side interest.
A pack of wild kids burst from the alley. The boy at the front slammed into the sugar-painting cart. The copper ladle flew. Syrup splashed across the flagstones. The old man crouched to pick up the ladle. He didn't say anything.
"Sweet osmanthus taro soup. Want to try some." Tsukago pointed at the dessert shop under the bridge. Zhao Dayong nodded. The steaming porcelain bowls arrived. The taro was soft and sticky. Crumbled osmanthus flowers floated on the surface.
I scooped up a piece of taro with the wooden spoon and dropped it into Zhao Dayong's bowl. He scooped it up, bit into it, and chewed twice. "Sweet."
[chat] The old town has such a vibe ✨
[chat] The taro soup looks so good 😆
[chat] Is that Zhao Dayong
[chat] Running into each other again
The sugar-painting old man was pouring a new dragon. He let the ladle drag an extra stroke across the stone. Zhao Dayong picked up the last piece of osmanthus cake and dropped it into his bowl. He finished it with his head down.
Zhao Dayong stood, walked to the riverbank, and set his laptop bag on the railing. He stood by the river, gazing at the stone arch of the bridge. Tsukago drained the last of her sweet soup.
Another black-canopied boat slipped through the bridge arch. The boatwoman's humming drifted over on the wind. Zhao Dayong was still by the river. The keychain on the zipper caught the warm glow of the lanterns.
[chat] Eating together now
[chat] Zhao Dayong came along
[chat] Looking forward to Cloudtop Restaurant ✨
[chat] Daughter is so good at this 👏
As we left the old town, Zhao Dayong adjusted the laptop bag on his shoulder. "Where to next." "The Cloudtop Restaurant. Join us." He thought for a moment, hitched the strap higher, and followed.
The old town's flagstone path narrowed behind us. Warm yellow lanterns hung from the eaves of the shopfronts. The three of us walked along the main street toward the restaurant.
Zhao Dayong walked a few paces ahead, his laptop bag bouncing. Tsukago leaned in, her voice a stage whisper. "He ate that taro like it was the first meal he had seen in days." She mimed shoveling food into her mouth, cheeks puffed out.
"It might have been. This girl figures he has been living on instant noodles and rejection letters." I watched him adjust his bag strap for the third time.
"You are like a stray cat rescuer, Sister." Tsukago crouched and made a beckoning motion with her fingers. "Here, kitty kitty. Feed them once, they follow you home."
"That is the plan. Except instead of cats, it is unemployed PhDs."
"At least cats are quiet." She cupped a hand to her ear. "This one monologues." She opened and closed her hand like a chattering mouth.
The canal carried the sound of water lapping against stone. Zhao Dayong was now a full block ahead, his silhouette small against the restaurant's glowing sign.
"He walks faster when he's nervous," Tsukago said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "This girl bets he'll knock over a glass at dinner."
"I'll take that bet. He'll drop a chopstick instead."
"Both. He'll do both." She mimed a cascade of falling utensils, her hands tumbling over each other. "A symphony of awkward. Chopsticks, napkin, maybe a soup spoon for variety."
"You're terrible." I nudged her with my elbow.
"I'm observant. It's a professional skill." She smoothed her skirt. "So, do we order for him, or let him sweat over the menu for ten minutes?"
"Let him sweat. It builds character." I smiled, watching his nervous silhouette pause at the restaurant door.
"Character and hungry. The perfect combination." She linked her arm through mine, and we walked the last stretch together.