At 11:45 p.m., the entire length of Wutong Street seemed to have been silenced.
Ian switched his briefcase to his left hand, and his right hand instinctively reached into his coat pocket, where his fingertips brushed against a cold coin. He had just finished a three-hour international conference, and his head was still buzzing with terms like “market penetration” and “user retention.”
The streetlights cast a long shadow behind him, which gradually shortened with each step.
As he passed the dry cleaner’s—its roller shutter already down—Ian paused. At this time of night, Old Tom, the owner, would usually be sitting in the wicker chair by the door, clutching an evening newspaper, occasionally looking up to nod at him. But tonight, the wicker chair was empty, covered only by a thin layer of plane tree leaves.
Ian suddenly felt a sense of emptiness.
He continued walking, his leather shoes making a soft crunching sound on the slightly damp asphalt. A breeze swept in from the alley entrance, carrying a hint of late-autumn chill and the faint, elusive aroma of coffee drifting from somewhere.
When he reached the street corner, the old vending machine was still glowing with a dim, yellow light. Ian walked over and slipped the coin into the slot.
“Click.”
A can of warm black tea rolled out.
He bent down to pick it up, and his fingertips brushed against the can—a slight, yet distinct, burn.
Just then, a series of soft footsteps sounded behind him. Ian turned and saw a girl in a gray hoodie crouched by the flower bed at the side of the road, carefully cradling a baby bird that had fallen from a tree.
She looked up and met Ian’s gaze.
“It seems to have gotten lost,” she said, her voice so soft it was as if she were afraid of disturbing something.
Ian looked at the baby bird in her hands, then up at the dark canopy of trees overhead.
“Maybe it just doesn’t want to fly anymore,” he said.
The girl paused for a moment, then smiled. She gently placed the baby bird back among the shrubs in the flower bed, brushed the dust off her hands, and stood up.
“You’re right,” she said. “Sometimes, it’s nice to just stop.”
She said nothing more and turned to walk toward the other end of the street. Ian stood where he was, watching her back disappear into the shadows beyond the reach of the streetlight.
The wind blew again, swirling a few fallen leaves.
Ian pulled the tab, took a sip of tea. The warm liquid slid down his throat, carrying a faint hint of sweetness.
He suddenly remembered that tomorrow was Saturday.
So he tossed the empty can into the trash can, slipped his hands back into his pockets, and slowly made his way home.
One by one, the streetlights glowed quietly behind him.
