The delivery app's notification chime sounded three times before Cheng ran back from next door.
When she pushed open the glass door, her hands were still covered in minced garlic. The pork belly with garlic sauce at the family eatery had just finished its prep work. She had only peeled half the garlic when the app chimed from the café. She wiped her hands twice on her apron, tapped the tablet to accept the order—an iced latte, with the note: “Less ice, no straw.”
She started grinding the beans. The espresso machine hummed, and she stood behind the bar, but her eyes kept drifting toward the glass door. Half-cut strips of ginger were still spread across the prep counter at the family eatery, and the stock was simmering over low heat in the pot. She still had to go back and keep an eye on it later.
It was 2:40 in the afternoon. Mom and Dad had gone home to rest an hour ago and wouldn’t be back until six. During that stretch of time, both shops were hers.
The latte was ready. She sealed the cup and set it on the pickup counter, waiting for the delivery driver to come get it. Then she pushed open the glass door again and walked back to the family eatery to keep peeling garlic.
The glass door was never locked. One push and it opened. Every day, she ran back and forth through it more times than she could count. Sometimes the soup would start boiling on one side just as an order came in on the other, and she would hurry between them, her flip-flops slapping against the floor as if she were racing against time. But really, there was nothing she was rushing toward. There were no customers waiting for her at either shop.
The family eatery's dining area was empty, and so was the café. She moved back and forth between the two vacant shops by herself, running herself ragged, but all she was busy with was preparation. Preparation for customers who might or might not ever show up.
When she finished peeling the garlic, she put the minced garlic into a small bowl, covered it with plastic wrap, and placed it in the refrigerator. Then she started cutting the braised snacks—dried tofu, kelp, and mini sausages—slicing every piece into neat, even portions. She was so familiar with these tasks that she could do them with her eyes closed. She had been helping out in this shop since she was little.
Back then, she had been helping Mom and Dad. Now she was carrying their shop on her shoulders.
Her hand stopped halfway through cutting. The pieces of dried tofu on the cutting board were lined up too neatly, as if they had been arranged for someone to see. But she had no idea whether anyone would order braised snacks that evening. The plate she had prepared yesterday had ended up being eaten by her herself.
She set down the knife, washed her hands, and glanced at her phone. The banking app notification was still sitting there. She didn’t open it. Her credit-card bill was due the day after tomorrow. She knew the amount, and she also knew she couldn’t come up with it right now.
Last month, she had called the bank’s customer-service line to ask whether she could set up a payment plan. The representative had been very polite, asking about her proof of income, sales, and whether she had any other debts. She answered each question one by one, feeling herself shrink a little more with every answer. In the end, the representative said they would submit her application for review and asked her to wait for a notification. The notification still hadn’t come.
She turned her phone facedown on the table.
The tablet chimed again. She ran back to the café—a slice of cheesecake for delivery. She took the cake from the display case, boxed it, sealed it, and placed it on the pickup counter. The whole process took less than two minutes. Then she stood in the empty café and looked at the four tables and twelve chairs.
Every single one was spotless. Not because she had wiped them down, but because no one had ever sat there.
She remembered when she had first opened the shop and gone out of her way to pick out these chairs at a secondhand furniture store. They were wooden, not too hard to sit on, with backs curved just right for leaning against. Back then, she had thought that when customers sat down to drink coffee, they should feel comfortable and want to stay a little longer. She had even put a small vase on every table, each one filled with dried flowers.
The vases were still there. A little dust had settled on the dried flowers, and she wiped them down every few days. Whenever she did, she felt stupid—why bother wiping them? No one was going to look at them. But she still wiped them. As if not doing it would mean admitting that no one was ever going to come to this shop.
She remembered three months ago, when the café across the street closed down. On her last day, the owner had still been wiping down the tables. Cheng had watched her from across the road, thinking not, What a shame, but, How long did she hold on? Later, the rolling shutter had come down, and the four red-paper characters reading “For Rent” had been left to weather in the rain ever since.
A little farther down, the brunch shop that had closed at the end of last year still had its sign hanging up, but there was nothing left inside its windows. Farther ahead, the bubble-tea shop on the corner had shut down in less than six months. Its owner was younger than she was. On the day he closed the business, he stood outside smoking. When Cheng passed by, he smiled and said, “Hang in there.” She didn’t know whether he had been saying it to her or to himself.
She didn’t dare think about whether her own shop would end up like that. But every night when she closed up, the thought came on its own.
The delivery driver arrived, took the cake, and rode away. Cheng watched his back disappear around the alley’s entrance, then lowered her head and glanced at today’s sales. The café had made three hundred and twenty dollars so far. After the app’s commission, less than two hundred and fifty remained.
She shut off the tablet, walked back to the family eatery, and started preparing the soup base for the evening.
The stock slowly bubbled in the pot. White foam rose to the surface, and she used a ladle to skim it away bit by bit. The kitchen was hot, and the range hood rumbled overhead. Her bangs clung to her forehead, but she didn’t have time to push them aside. Sweat slid down her neck and into her collar. She rubbed her face against her shoulder and kept skimming the foam.
She did these things every day. Skim the foam, adjust the heat, taste the broth. She didn’t have to think while doing them; her hands moved on their own. But whenever her hands stopped, her mind started turning. It always turned to numbers—the gas bill for the month, coffee-bean deliveries, the app’s commission rate, the refrigerator’s electricity bill. None of the individual expenses was large, but together they made a hole she couldn’t fill.
Sometimes she calculated how much she could save by closing the café. Rent, utilities, and the cost of supplies would all be gone. But what then? The build-out and equipment she had already paid for, along with the espresso machine she was still paying off, would all become sunk costs. And closing it would mean admitting she had failed. She had opened the shop at twenty. If she closed it at twenty-two, she didn’t know whether she could accept those three words.
So she kept skimming the foam.
At four-thirty, she turned down the heat under the soup base and started washing the vegetables. The water pressure from the faucet was weak, so she had to separate the leaves one by one to rinse them. When she reached the third bunch, she suddenly remembered that she still hadn’t eaten lunch. She had drunk half a cup of milk before leaving that morning, and her stomach had been empty ever since. But she didn’t want to eat anything from the shop. Every bite was a cost.
She pulled a lozenge she had bought two days ago from her pocket, unwrapped it, and held it in her mouth. The cool mint flavor could fool her stomach for a little while.
At 5:50, she heard the rolling shutter. Mom was back, carrying a bag of vegetables.
“Any orders today?” Mom asked about the café.
“Yeah, a few.” Cheng didn’t give her the number.
Mom said, “Mm,” and didn’t ask anything else. She set the vegetables beside the sink and started washing them. The two of them worked separately in the kitchen without speaking. There was only the sound of running water and the range hood.
Cheng noticed that Mom had brought back fewer vegetables than before. She used to bring two large bags. Now there was only one, and she had chosen the cheaper kind sold near the end of the market day. Cheng didn’t ask.
Dad didn’t arrive until 6:10. When he came in, he glanced toward the café. Through the glass door, the lights were on, but no one was inside. He said nothing and walked into the kitchen to heat the pans.
While he stir-fried, Cheng stood beside him, handing him plates. Dad’s movements were still quick and sure. He flipped the wok rapidly and controlled the heat with precision. He had spent decades honing those skills. But when Cheng saw him tossing the wok, she noticed his wrist tremble once. It hadn’t used to do that.
She said nothing.
During the dinner rush, four tables of customers came to the family eatery. It wasn’t much, but it was a little better than yesterday. Cheng ran back and forth between the two shops—carrying dishes and clearing tables for Dad on one side, keeping an eye on the café in case an order came in on the other. The tablet stayed silent all evening.
At one point, a table ordered extra dishes. As she carried them over, she heard the customers talking. One man said, “This street’s getting quieter and quieter. That café that used to be here was pretty good. Why’d it close?” Another said, “Who even goes to cafés anymore? Convenience-store coffee is good enough.”
Cheng set down the dishes and said, “Enjoy,” then turned and walked back to the kitchen. Her expression didn’t change.
At nine, the last table at the family eatery left. Mom started cleaning up, and Dad washed the pans. Cheng returned to the café, stood behind the bar, and turned off the espresso machine.
She started switching off the lights. First the dining area, then the hallway, and finally the one above the bar. It was the same order every day. As the lights went out one by one, the café changed from a “shop” back into an empty room.
She stood in the darkness for a while.
On the other side of the glass door, Mom was still wiping down the tables. Her movements were slow, not like she was taking her time, but more like she was putting something off. Cheng watched her back. One side of the apron tie had come loose and hung beside her waist, but she hadn’t noticed.
When business had been good, Mom used to clear the tables quickly, humming as she worked. Sometimes she would tap twice on the glass door and ask if Cheng wanted a late-night snack.
She didn’t tap much anymore.
After a while, Mom pushed open the glass door and came over. She was carrying a bowl of soup.
“Leftovers,” she said, setting the bowl on the bar. “Drink it, or I’ll pour it out.”
She didn’t ask how business had been at the café that day.
Cheng said, “Okay.”
Mom stood there for two seconds and glanced at the empty chairs. She said nothing, turned, and walked back through the glass door. After two steps, she stopped and looked back at Cheng. Her mouth moved as if she were about to say something, but in the end, she only pulled the glass door shut. It made a very soft sound as it closed, like a sigh.
Cheng picked up the soup. It was hot-and-sour soup, lukewarm, with a thin layer of oil floating on top. She knew this wasn’t leftovers. There hadn’t been much left over at Mom’s shop today. The soup had been made separately, but Mom would never say so.
She took a sip.
It was salty.
The soup wasn’t the problem.
She set down the bowl, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, then carried the bowl to the sink and washed it clean. She washed it carefully—the inside, the outside, the bottom, even scrubbing the spoon twice. As if as long as there was still something for her hands to do, she wouldn’t have to think about anything else.
When she finished, she placed the bowl on the drying rack, planning to take it back through the glass door and return it to Mom later.
She pulled down the rolling shutter and locked it. Standing beneath the covered walkway, she looked up at her sign. One of the fluorescent tubes inside the acrylic lightbox had grown dim, leaving only half the shop name clear. She thought she should replace it, but even one new tube would cost money.
She slipped her hand into her pocket and felt her phone. The screen lit up, displaying a bank payment reminder. She dismissed it and shoved the phone back into her pocket.
The street at the alley’s entrance was empty beneath the streetlight. Across from her, one corner of the red paper on the rolling shutter of the closed café had curled up in the wind. She didn’t look back at her own shop.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to. She was afraid that if she did, she would think of that question—when would that faded red paper be pasted on her side?
On her ride home, she passed a convenience store that was still open. It was brightly lit inside, and an employee was restocking the shelves. Cheng stopped at a red light and watched the scene, suddenly feeling envious.
She wasn’t envious of the employee. She was envious of the feeling that doing something actually made a difference. Put something on a shelf, and the shelf was no longer empty.
In her café, the twelve chairs were lined up perfectly, but not one of them was there because someone had sat in it. The small vases on the tables still held dried flowers, dust settling over them.
The light turned green.
Cheng twisted the throttle and rode into the night. Streetlights reflected one after another in her helmet visor as they slipped backward, like they were counting something down.
She didn’t know how much longer she could hold on.
But tomorrow morning, she would still turn on the espresso machine. Then she would push open that glass door, walk to the other side, and begin the prep work.