Lin Xiao first thought of switching off the lights outside at 2:47 a.m.
Half the shelves were gone. Four pale rectangles marked the floor. She steered her mop around them three times before remembering there was nothing left to avoid.
The owner would collect the keys at six. Leave the drinks in the fridge, he had said; someone would take them tomorrow. Count the change. Take home the unused shopping bags if she wanted them.
She did not want bags. Too much of her rented room already lived in them. She was moving next week. Finding a charger meant opening four bags; a bowl, six. One said “Use immediately.” She had not opened it in two months.
At three, the automatic door chimed.
The man in the gray jacket was back.
He came around this time every night for a carton of room-temperature milk, four yuan fifty. After paying, he stood beside the left-hand pillar outside, raised his phone, then lowered it. Sometimes he held the milk; sometimes he put it on the sill. She had thought he was waiting for a ride, until she noticed he usually walked back the way he had come.
Only two cartons remained tonight. She placed one on the counter.
“Last night,” she said.
He had already lifted his phone. He looked at her, then at the gaps between the shelves.
“Renovating?”
“Closing.”
“Oh.”
He moved the phone toward the scanner. Nothing happened.
“You haven't opened the code,” she said.
“Go ahead.”
He turned the screen around. The camera was open.
After paying, he asked when the outside lights would go off.
“I was going to do it now.”
He nodded and stepped aside as if making room for someone behind him. Nobody was there. Even the noodle stall across the road had packed away its awning.
“Could you wait ten minutes?”
She looked at the clock. The owner had not told her to turn them off early. She simply did not want to stare at that illuminated patch of emptiness, waiting for a customer who would never come.
“What for?”
“To record something. The light at home isn't good.”
She neither agreed nor touched the switch. She went on counting coins.
Two minutes after he went out, she heard, “This character is—”
Then silence.
The same opening returned, quieter now, the sounds crowded together.
She broke open a roll of coins. An arcade token fell out. She pushed it aside and counted again.
At the fifth “This character is,” she looked up.
His phone rested on the sill, propped against the milk. He took a sheet of paper from his pocket, held it at his chest, and checked the screen. A deep fold ran through a character in the middle. He could not smooth it out.
“Hold it higher,” she called through the glass.
He stepped toward her to hear, taking his face out of the frame.
She went outside and pointed. “If you're filming the writing, put the paper here. Stand beside it.”
A child's pencil handwriting ran across the sheet. Larger characters had been added below in ballpoint. She could make out ying, “to win.” A missing horizontal stroke had been added later, darker than the others.
“She asked how to remember it,” he said.
“Who?”
“My daughter.”
A group chat was paused on his screen: a long voice message above a video he had not sent. Lin Xiao looked away and shifted the phone right, clear of a price sticker.
“Less reflection here.”
He looked at the paper on the screen and smiled suddenly.
“I got one wrong. She'll notice.”
“Then fix it.”
“I did.” His fingernail indicated the added stroke.
She replaced the milk with a taller box of tissues. A whole case remained behind the counter; the owner had said to throw away whatever they could not give away.
She closed the preview and returned to the camera.
“Press here. If it goes wrong, start again.”
He pulled up his zipper. A strip of reflective vest appeared beneath the collar.
“I nearly wrote this character wrong today, too,” he told the phone.
Lin Xiao went inside. A different beginning this time, she thought.
She picked up the arcade token, examined it, and dropped it into the change box. A few seconds later, she took it out and put it in her pocket.
He recorded for two minutes, then sat on the low step to watch. The phone was silent; only his mouth moved. When it finished, he watched again.
She mopped the final patch of floor and taped a “Closed permanently” notice to the door. Static made a strip of tape cling to the back of her hand. She shook it, unsuccessfully.
He came in and held the other corner of the paper.
“Here?”
“Higher.”
“She's only in third grade,” he said without introduction.
“Your daughter?”
“Teacher asked the family to think of a way to remember a character. Record it together.”
Lin Xiao pressed the tape flat.
“Due today?”
“Day before yesterday.”
Neither spoke. He pressed the corners down with great care.
“She told me everyone else had handed theirs in.”
“Why haven't you sent it?”
He looked at the phone. “They'll laugh at how I talk.”
She wanted to ask who would laugh, to say nobody would, to say he could not know. Instead she asked, “Did your daughter say that?”
“No.”
“Send it to her first.”
He looked up.
“It's the group you're worried about, right? Let her see it first.”
He searched his contacts. The avatar was a cartoon figure in a red hat; three stars followed the name. He sent the video and kept his thumb against the screen until the progress bar finished.
“She'll be asleep.”
Lin Xiao saw the time: 3:26.
He pocketed the phone, took it out again, and turned the volume up one notch.
“How much for the tissues?”
“Nothing. Take them.”
He shook his head and tried the milk as a prop again. The camera tilted upward, showing only the eaves.
“Where will you work now?” he asked.
“Days. A warehouse.”
“Good. No night shifts.”
“I don't know yet.”
She had already said “good” to so many people. The landlord said warehouses were steady: good. Her mother asked if she could stop standing all night: good. Saying she did not know left the store quiet for a moment.
“I've changed jobs, too,” he said.
He did not say which. She did not ask.
After four, a delivery truck arrived. Its driver called from outside to ask whether they were clearing the fridges today. Six, she said; check with the owner. He decided to get something to eat first.
The man had gone. The tissues remained on the sill, beside the milk with its straw still fastened to the carton.
She put both inside next to the last unsold milk.
At 5:40 she sent the owner the cash total. “Typing” appeared, then a quick “OK.” She waited. Nothing more came.
The sky was beginning to pale when the man returned. He came so fast he turned his shoulder through the automatic door before it had fully opened.
“She's seen it.”
Lin Xiao still held her cleaning cloth.
“Your daughter?”
He nodded and offered the phone. Beneath the video was an eleven-second voice message. Before playing it, he glanced at her.
“Listen.”
The girl sounded newly awake, her voice thick with sleep.
“Dad, you held the paper upside down for a bit. The part after that is right. I'll record mine. Don't delete yours. I want to join them together.”
The message ended. He played it again.
“Join them together,” he said.
Lin Xiao nodded and handed him the tissues. This time he took them without asking the price.
When the owner arrived, they were taking down the promotional sign. The man steadied one side while she cut the plastic cord around the pillar. It was lighter than they expected; both stepped back when the cord snapped.
“Friend of yours?” the owner asked.
“Customer.”
The man picked up his milk. “I paid for this.”
“I know.”
Before handing over the keys, she turned off every light except the fridge. The doorway lights went last. Their reflections in the glass faded at once.
She shouldered her bag. Her soles made a soft sound on the floor she had cleaned through the night. Below the step, he cradled the phone in both hands. Another video had arrived and was still downloading.
“Can you show me how to save this?” he asked.
She put her bag beside her feet and held out her hand.