Crossing the stool off his list, Xu Zhao pushed the pen through the paper.
The stool had three colors: its original blue, white drops from the landlord's paintwork, and a blackish-purple stain from dyeing trousers. One leg was short. Sitting required a balancing toe.
The new room was small; the moving van charged by size. After measuring the desk, mattress, and two boxes, he measured the stool. He did not need to. He knew its size.
His friend A-Zhe arrived with wide tape.
“Cups?”
“Packed.”
“Scissors?”
“Possibly packed too.”
A-Zhe rocked on the stool. “This one's still on duty.”
Xu Zhao reopened “Kitchen” for the cups. A-Zhe stood on the stool to remove curtains while Xu steadied it. Seven years of dust fell from the rail. Both turned away to sneeze.
Eventually the stool went outside.
While Xu looked for paper for a “Free to take” sign, the girl opposite crouched beside its purple stain.
“Uncle, don't you want it?”
Not accustomed to “uncle,” he paused. “The leg wobbles.”
“Could it hold flowers?”
“What flowers?”
“Spring onions.”
She was serious. On her balcony, yogurt cups held thin onions crowded inside the rail. Sun reached only the highest row.
“Yes. Don't move it yet.”
A-Zhe looked up from a box. “After-sales service included?”
Xu turned it over. The joint was loose; old paper beneath the foot had darkened. The leg had nearly splayed while they took down the curtains. A delayed fright caught him.
The driver called to ask about arriving early. Keep the original time, Xu said. A-Zhe checked the clock without hurrying him and pushed more boxes toward the door.
Xu found a small screwdriver and sawed a wedge from a discarded board. The blunt saw sounded like someone struggling with a door next door.
The girl watched from the threshold. “Do you like it?”
“Used to it.”
“Why leave it, then?”
He tightened a screw for some time before answering. “No room.”
She looked inside: a crooked clothes rack, a half-dismantled fan, light and dark rectangles on walls as if the room were changing clothes. Apparently satisfied, she asked no more.
When he first moved here, he had no chair. This stool cost twenty yuan at the used-furniture shop. Carrying it six floors required two rests. He expected to stay months, not years: no new curtains or desk, computer on the sill, himself here.
Later it became a bedside table: hot water in winter, fan in summer, a seat again when friends ate over. A screw vanished while he changed a bulb. Paper under the foot became the solution.
A-Zhe offered water. “Rest. You're sweating.”
The girl ran home. Xu thought she was bored. When the wedge was tight, she returned with onions and compared their height with the seat.
“Higher. They can see the sun.”
He pressed each corner. Uneven ground; he moved it and tested again. A-Zhe sat and gave an exaggerated twist. Xu hurried him off.
“For flowers.”
They carried it to the opposite balcony and arranged the cups in two rows. The girl wanted it against the rail; Xu and her mother shifted it inward to a steady patch with light.
At the door, she chased him and pressed one cup into his hands.
“You have one.”
“I'm not good with plants.”
“Water when the soil's dry. Don't soak it.” Then, concerned: “And put it by a window.”
The van arrived. Seeing the cup, A-Zhe laughed while sealing the boxes. “Throw one out, add one. You gain things by moving.”
Xu laughed too. The onions rode by the passenger footwell; he guarded them on turns.
The new sill was just wide enough. Before unpacking, he wiped it clean. Instead of the old trees, another building's kitchens faced him, lighting one by one at dinner.
He found the list in his pocket. On its reverse were the landlord's new address, a tracking number, and a telephone number he could not identify.
Beside “stool” he added: opposite balcony, for onions.
The tiny hole remained. He folded the list into his wallet.
A-Zhe sent a photograph. The girl had brought an empty moving box onto the balcony to grow more onions. In one corner, all four stool legs rested firmly on the floor.
Xu enlarged it and looked for a long time before remembering he had not unpacked the cups.
Author's note: Original fiction. This Reddit discussion supplied a broad thematic prompt. Characters, dialogue, and events were independently created and do not represent the poster's life.