What I'm about to tell you happened last autumn. I haven't breathed a word of it to my family since.
I sell vegetables at the Chengnan Farmers' Market.
Chengnan Farmers' Market is one of those old markets built in the 90s—steel frame shed, tin roof, the whole thing clatters when it rains.
It's divided into four sections. The vegetable section is at the far east, with over twenty stalls. I'm at stall number seven.
I rented the stall from Old Chen. He'd worked this market for almost thirty years before his back gave out last year. He went back to his hometown to recuperate, passing the stall—and his regular customers—to me.
On the day he handed over the keys, he talked my ear off. Which cafeteria chef had a bad temper, which auntie fussed over her veggies but paid quick, which kid loved tomatoes, which old lady only bought pumpkins...
I jotted it all down on my phone.
Then he remembered something, as if it had slipped his mind. "Oh right, there's a rule." I asked what rule.
He said, "If the first customer of the day picks and picks but doesn't buy anything, chase after them and give them a bunch of scallions. Don't let them leave empty-handed."
I asked why. He said it was an old tradition. Just do it, don't ask questions.
Markets like this have all sorts of taboos. No credit in the morning, don't lay the scale weight upside down, don't say "sold out" when closing—say "cleared out." Every vendor seems to have their own set of superstitions.
I figured giving away scallions wasn't a big deal. Scallions are cheap, thirty or fifty cents a bunch. Just good business.
The first two months were smooth sailing.
Every morning at six, I'd set up my stall, arrange the veggies, spray them with water. The droplets sparkled under the fluorescent lights, looking fresh as can be.
My produce comes from the Dongjiao Wholesale Market—good quality, cheaper than the supermarket.
Life was okay. After rent, gas, and losses, I could save five or six thousand a month. Not as good as an office job, but free. No one breathing down my neck, no clock to punch. When I got tired, I'd lean against the vegetable crate and scroll through my phone.
Funny thing is, I'm not much of a salesman. I'm quiet, not good with people. But every morning, the first customer—no matter how long they took picking—always bought something in the end.
Sometimes it was an auntie, squeezing the cabbage for ten minutes, complaining the leaves weren't tender enough, then buying two heads anyway.
Sometimes it was an office worker, poking at tomatoes like they were examining diamonds. I'd think the sale was off, but they'd fill a bag.
Two months. Not a single first customer left without buying.
I'd even forgotten Old Chen's rule. I never needed it.
Until that day.
It was mid-to-late October. I can't remember the exact date, just that it was unusually cold. The forecast said a cold snap was coming. I wore a fleece-lined jacket and still kept stomping my feet.
Most vendors had turned on their little space heaters. The air was dry, mixed with the smell of rotten vegetables and fish. That smell—you can't forget it once you've smelled it.
I got to the stall at 5:30. Arranged the vegetables, stacked the foam boxes. Worked up a sweat, then froze. My back was icy.
At 6:10, the sky wasn't fully light yet. Half the fluorescent tubes on the market ceiling were on. My spot happened to be between two lights, so it was dim.
I re-sprayed the veggies, breathed into my hands, and waited for the first customer.
The first customer showed up around 6:20.
A woman, maybe early thirties, about my age. She wore a khaki trench coat, her hair pulled back in a low ponytail. She carried a canvas bag over one shoulder, printed with "City Library."
Ordinary-looking—not the kind you'd notice on the street. But there was something about her. Later, I'd realize what it was. It was "quiet."
She walked without a sound. Stood at the stall without a sound. If I hadn't happened to look up, I might not have known someone was there.
I said, "Morning, take your time. Fresh veggies just in." She nodded, said nothing, and started looking.
I stood nearby, not pestering her. Some customers hate vendors hovering—you push, they back off. Better let her browse.
She shifted the canvas bag to her other shoulder, bent down, and peered at the eggplants. Picked one up, turned it around, put it back.
Then the cucumbers. Picked one, gave the stem a light pinch with her nail, put it back. Then bok choy, lettuce, broccoli—she picked up every single thing, then put every single thing down.
I waited for almost ten minutes. Honestly, I was getting impatient. Morning market time is precious—six to eight is peak hours. With her blocking the stall like this, I couldn't serve other customers properly.
But I held my tongue. First customer of the day, keep the peace. Finally, she picked up two potatoes and weighed them in her hand. I thought this was it.
Then she put the potatoes down too. Straightened up, said nothing, turned to leave.
I froze. First time in two months the first customer walked away empty-handed.
I almost called out to her, but stopped myself. You can't force someone to buy, right?
I was about to turn to an old man who'd just walked up when Old Chen's words popped into my head: "If the first customer picks and picks but doesn't buy, chase after them and give them a bunch of scallions. Don't let them leave empty-handed."
I hesitated for two or three seconds. The woman was already ten meters away, her canvas bag swinging from her arm, almost at the intersection of the vegetable and meat sections.
I bent down and grabbed a bunch of scallions from under the stall. I always pre-bundle them—seven or eight stalks tied with straw, stacked in a foam box, selling for fifty cents a bunch.
I took the top one and jogged after her.
"Hey, miss! Wait up!"
She stopped and turned. I reached her, stuffed the scallions into her hand, and said, "First sale of the day. Here, take this bunch of scallions. Don't leave empty-handed."
She looked down at the scallions in her hand. That's when I noticed her eyes—single-lidded, the pupils incredibly black. Too black, like polished obsidian beads.
Her expression when she looked at the scallions was strange. Not happy, not surprised—more like confirmation. As if she'd been waiting for this bunch of scallions.
She looked up at me, her mouth twitching slightly, as if she wanted to say something. But she didn't. She put the scallions in her canvas bag and walked away.
I stood there watching her walk out the market gate. The light at the entrance turned her into a silhouette, then she was gone.
I rubbed my hands—they were sweaty from that sprint. I went back to the stall. The old man was still waiting.
The old man bought two jin of potatoes and a bunch of green beans, paid, and left. Then business picked up—one customer after another. Weighing, quoting prices, taking money, giving change, bagging. I quickly forgot about the woman.
The next day, at 6:10 again, she came.
Same khaki trench coat, same canvas bag, same eerie quietness.
I recognized her immediately. My heart skipped a beat. She stood at the stall, bent down to look at the veggies just like yesterday—picked up eggplant, put it down; picked up cucumber, put it down.
This time I stood beside her, my palms sweating again. I couldn't explain why I was nervous. Maybe it was her silence, or the way she looked at the vegetables—not like she was choosing, but like she was searching for something.
She took even longer than yesterday. Several customers walked past my stall, saw her standing there, and moved on.
I lost several sales. I was anxious and annoyed, but for some reason, I couldn't bring myself to rush her.
Finally, just like yesterday, she straightened up, took nothing, and turned to leave.
I stood behind the stall, two voices warring in my head. One said forget it—if she doesn't want to buy, that's her business. You're not running a charity, giving away scallions every day is ridiculous.
The other said remember Old Chen's words. Don't let her leave empty-handed. I gritted my teeth, bent down, grabbed a bunch of scallions, and chased after her again.
This time she hadn't gone far. It was as if she knew I'd follow. She stood waiting in the middle of the vegetable section aisle.
I handed her the scallions, saying, "Miss, old tradition. Take it." She took it, same expression—looked down at the scallions, then up at me. Then she spoke.
Her voice was soft, but crystal clear. Every word fell like a raindrop on stone. "Don't come tomorrow."
I didn't process it at first. I laughed a little and said, "What?" She put the scallions in her bag, looked me in the eye, and repeated, "Don't set up your stall tomorrow."
Then she walked away. I stood in the middle of the aisle. Auntie Liu from the tofu stall called over, "Xiao Zhao, you're blocking the way!" I stepped aside and went back to my stall.
I was distracted all day. Gave someone five yuan too much change, got chewed out by an auntie. I didn't say a word back.
That night, I walked home. I lived not far from the market, in an old residential building—sixth floor, no elevator. Two of the hallway lights were broken. I climbed the stairs in the dark, my mind replaying the woman's words.
Don't come tomorrow. What did she mean? Did she know me before? No way—I spend all day in the sun at the market, even my mom says I've aged these past two years. A woman in her early thirties wouldn't recognize me.
Did Old Chen know her? I pulled out my phone to call him, but it was almost ten o'clock. Old folks go to bed early. Forget it.
I tossed the phone on the coffee table and took a shower.
Hot water poured over me. I closed my eyes under the showerhead, the three sentences looping in my head: "Don't come tomorrow," "Don't set up your stall tomorrow." Her voice was light, like cotton stuffing my ears.
The wind howled outside. The old windows didn't seal well. Wind squeezed through the cracks, making a high, thin whistling sound.
Then I remembered—yesterday, when I gave her the scallions, her expression was "confirmation." Yes, exactly. Like she knew I'd give her the scallions.
The thought made my spine prickle. I got into bed, closed my eyes, opened them, closed them again. Past midnight. One AM. Two AM.
Somewhere upstairs, a dog barked twice, then fell silent. I rolled over, pulled the blanket over my head, and thought forget it—whatever happens, happens.
Tomorrow was Thursday. Thursday mornings were busy. If I didn't show up, my weekly earnings would take a hit. Besides, why should I skip work because some stranger said so? Crazy.
The third morning, I went anyway.
But for some reason, I slipped a kitchen knife into my pocket before leaving.
Just a stainless steel kitchen scissor—nothing big, but it felt heavy in my hand. I thought I was being ridiculous. A vegetable vendor carrying a scissor for protection?
Protection from what? A woman in her early thirties? But if I didn't bring it, I'd feel uneasy.
At six, I arrived at the stall. I put the scissor in the drawer under the electronic scale, covered with a plastic bag. Then arranged the vegetables, sprayed them with water—same as always.
The weather was warmer than the previous two days. The sun came up early. There were a few transparent panels in the market ceiling, and sunlight leaked through, cutting bright squares on the floor.
6:10—she didn't come. 6:20—still no sign. 6:30—nothing.
I sighed in relief. I'd been overthinking. She probably just said that randomly. Maybe she went on a business trip, or switched markets.
I relaxed and started serving customers normally. That morning was especially busy—there was a parent-child activity at the nearby kindergarten, and a bunch of parents came to buy supplies. By eight, I'd sold over half my vegetables.
I did the math—at this rate, I could close up by noon. At 8:30, I was bending over weighing tomatoes for an old lady when I caught a glimpse of a figure standing at my stall out of the corner of my eye.
It was her.
She wasn't wearing the trench coat. She'd changed into a dark gray wool coat. Her hair was down, falling over her shoulders.
Still the same canvas bag, bulging with something inside. She wasn't looking at the vegetables. She was just standing there, looking at me.
The old lady paid and left. It was just me and her at the stall. She walked over, put the canvas bag on my counter, and pulled out a mesh bag from inside.
The mesh bag contained fruit—apples and oranges, I could see. They looked excellent, much better than anything in the market. Each one was roughly the same size, like they'd been specially selected.
She pushed the mesh bag toward me.
I said, "Miss, what's this for?" She said, "Thank you for the scallions these past two days."
I waved my hands quickly. "No need, no need. It's just our stall tradition. Scallions are nothing—can't accept this."
She didn't move. Her hand stayed on the mesh bag, her eyes on mine. Those same unnaturally black eyes, the pupils like bottomless holes. Then she spoke, her voice still soft, still clear.
She said, "Do you know what it means when the first customer doesn't buy?"
I shook my head. She glanced left and right. Old Zhou from the dried goods stall was weighing wood ear mushrooms for a customer—no one was paying attention to us.
She lowered her voice slightly, but every word was still distinct. "Places like this market—all kinds of people come and go. The energy here is messy.
The first sale of the day is the most important threshold. If the first customer looks at your goods but leaves, it means whatever's attached to them doesn't align with your energy.
That person took the first wave of malevolent energy for you. If you let them leave empty-handed, you're making them take it for nothing."
She paused, then continued, "Giving scallions—cōng—is giving 'chōng.' The words sound the same. Chōng means to counteract, to flush away. You pass the counterforce to them, let them carry the evil away. It's an old tradition. Not many people know it, even fewer are willing to talk about it.
Your previous vendor—he must have known something."
I was stunned, my mind racing back to Old Chen's face. Old Chen was a straightforward man. Thirty years in this market, never once mentioned anything supernatural.
When he told me about the rule, he'd been as casual as saying "don't stack tomatoes too high or they'll get squashed."
I said, "So I gave you the scallions, you took the evil away. That should be the end of it, right?"
She looked at me, blinked. The blink was slow—unnaturally slow, like she was performing it for me. Look, I'm blinking. I'm human.
"It's not over," she said. "The first day you gave me scallions, I took the evil. But I came back the second day because I saw something still following you.
That thing is hiding near your stall. It's not easy to get rid of. I've been coming for three days to keep it contained."
The corner of my mouth twitched. I wanted to laugh, but I couldn't. The way she said these things—so calm, like she wasn't making up a story at all.
People making up stories have tells—pauses, checking your reaction, hand gestures. She had none. She just stated it, flat and factual, like reading from a report.
"I can't come tomorrow," she said. "That thing will move tomorrow. So don't set up your stall."
She said it again. Exactly the same words as yesterday.
I took a deep breath, smelling the familiar mixed scents of the market:
Fishy smell from the fresh section, dry aroma of mushrooms and wood ears from Old Zhou's stall next door, and a faint smell on her—like old book pages. I asked her, "Who exactly are you?"
She didn't answer. She pushed the mesh bag toward me again and said, "Take the fruit. Remember what I said—don't come tomorrow." Then she turned and walked away.
This time I didn't chase. I stood behind the stall, watching her back disappear into the light at the entrance, the mesh bag in my hand, the plastic cutting into my fingers.
Auntie Liu called from next door: "Xiao Zhao, how much are your tomatoes again?" I snapped back to my senses and quoted the price. Then I put the mesh bag under the scale and kept selling vegetables.
That day I sold out all my vegetables and closed up before twelve.
Normally I'd chat with the other vendors for a bit—Old Zhou liked to talk stocks, Auntie Liu complained about her son not finding a girlfriend, Ah Qiang from the seafood stall always tried to convince people which platform had cheaper wholesale prices.
But that day I skipped it. I packed up and left. At home, I took the fruit out of the mesh bag. Four apples, six oranges.
I washed an apple at the kitchen sink, took a bite. Crisp, sweet, juicy—definitely good quality.
I sat on the sofa eating the apple and called Old Chen.
It rang seven or eight times—no answer. I checked the time: 12:30. The old man was probably eating.
I put the phone down and took another bite of the apple. About ten minutes later, my phone rang. It was Old Chen calling back.
"Hey, Xiao Zhao. Was cooking, didn't hear it. What's up?" Old Chen's voice was hoarse, with the smell of cooking oil in it.
I thought for a long time about how to phrase this. I couldn't just say "Are you into feudal superstition at the market?"
I said, "Brother Chen, do you remember that rule you told me when you left? About giving scallions to the first customer if they don't buy?"
There was silence on the phone for two or three seconds. Old Chen said, "Yeah, what about it?"
I told him everything—from the woman's first visit to the third time she brought fruit, every word she said: "took the evil," "gave chōng," "something following you," "don't set up the stall tomorrow." Not a word left out.
Old Chen said nothing on the other end. I could only hear his breathing—slow, deliberate.
I finished. Still silence on the phone.
I thought the signal was bad, said "Hello?" Finally, Old Chen spoke. His voice had changed—no longer that hoarse, casual tone. It was dry and tight, like something was squeezing his throat.
"Xiao Zhao, listen to me." He paused. "Don't go to the market tomorrow. Believe it or not, just one day. Take the loss for one day.
If you insist on going, I can't stop you. But if something happens later, don't say I didn't warn you."
My heart sank. If Old Chen had laughed and said "Oh, that's all just superstition, don't take it seriously," I would have felt relieved. But he didn't. He was even more serious than the woman.
I asked, "Brother Chen, did you ever experience something like this?" Old Chen didn't answer. After a moment of silence, he said, "Thirty years in this market—you think I haven't seen things? Just listen to me. Don't go tomorrow. Goodbye."
The phone went dead.
I held the phone, listening to the dial tone, my feelings a jumble.
Fear? Not exactly. A normal adult, thirty-something years old, educated, traveled, with a established worldview—you don't shatter that with a couple of people's words.
But to say I didn't believe it at all? That wasn't true either. It felt more like someone suddenly telling you there's a crack as thin as a hair in the corner of a room you know intimately.
You don't believe it, but your eyes keep darting to that corner.
I looked out the window. It was still daylight. The two o'clock sun reflected off the building across the street, blindingly white.
In broad daylight, someone tells you not to go out tomorrow because something is following you. Do you believe them?
I tossed the phone on the coffee table and turned on the TV. The news channel was running a local affairs program. A reporter was interviewing residents about heating problems in an old neighborhood.
The residents were crowded around the reporter, complaining—some said the radiators were cold, some said they'd paid over a thousand yuan for heating that was useless. Real life. So vivid.
This was the world I knew. I watched TV and finished the apple. Then I took all the fruit out of the mesh bag and arranged them on the counter.
Four apples, six oranges—perfectly neat, each one carefully selected. I picked up an orange, turned it in my hand.
The peel was smooth, brightly colored. I brought it close—fresh citrus scent. I put the orange down, picked up my phone, and checked the weather.
Tomorrow: cloudy turning sunny, 6 to 15 degrees Celsius, north wind 2-3. Nice weather.
I put the phone down and leaned back on the sofa. The people on TV were still arguing about heating.
I closed my eyes. The woman's voice echoed in my head again: "Don't set up your stall tomorrow." I shook my head hard. Forget it. Stop thinking about it. Tomorrow's problems can wait until tomorrow.
But it was like two little people fighting in my head—one saying go, one saying don't go. They fought until I fell asleep on the sofa, half-dazed.
The next morning, my phone alarm woke me at five.
I sat on the sofa, confused for a minute or two, before realizing I'd slept there last night. The TV was still on—had been running all night with late-night news, now showing the morning weather forecast.
I rubbed my eyes, stood up automatically to go wash my face. Took two steps, stopped. I looked at the bathroom door. That phrase played in my head again: don't set up your stall tomorrow.
I stood in the middle of the living room. Outside the curtains, the sky was still dark. Yellow streetlight leaked through the gaps, stretching a long, blurry streak across the floor.
I pulled out my phone, opened the call history, found Old Chen's name. I stared at the number for a long time, my thumb hovering over the screen. Finally, I didn't call.
I sent a WeChat message to my wife. She was at her mother's place in the neighboring city—her mom had fallen and broken a bone, been in the hospital for almost a month.
I typed: "Not feeling well today. Won't be setting up the stall." I checked the time: 5:15. I muted my phone, threw it on the bed, and went to the kitchen to boil water.
The kettle hummed. I leaned against the kitchen doorframe, a strange feeling in my chest—guilt, unease, and a trace of fear I had to admit.
At 6:10, I sat at the dining table, a cup of cold water in front of me.
The market should be opening by now. Would she go today? If she did and found my stall empty, what would she think?
Or—what if nothing happened? The sun rose as usual, the market ran normally, my stall stood empty while Old Zhou, Auntie Liu, Ah Qiang sold their goods as usual. How would I explain it when I went back tomorrow?
That I stayed home because a stranger told me to?
The thought made me laugh. I stood up, grabbed my jacket, and walked toward the door. My hand touched the doorknob—then stopped.
I looked down at my hand on the doorknob. The back of my hand had several dry cracks—from carrying vegetable crates every day. I stood there for about ten seconds, then turned around, walked back to the sofa, and sat down.
Forget it. Just one day. Treat it as a day off.
At nine in the morning, I was curled up on the sofa scrolling through my phone when Old Chen called.
I picked up: "Hello?" Old Chen asked, "Did you go to the market?" I said no, I was at home.
There was silence on the phone for about two seconds. Then Old Chen said something, his voice muffled like he was covering the receiver: "The market had an accident."
I sat up straight, pressing the phone tightly to my ear.
Old Chen said, "Auntie Liu just called me. The north side of the market caught fire from an electrical short. Burned several stalls. The fire started around the dried goods section—your stall was right in the path.
" He paused. "Three stalls burned. Old Zhou's dried goods, your vegetable stall, and half of Ah Qiang's seafood stall. Old Zhou's fine—just lost all his stock. Ah Qiang's side the fire department put out quickly, not too much damage."
I gripped the phone. Cold sweat broke out on the back of my hand—fine, icy droplets seeping from my pores. "When did this happen?"
"Half an hour ago. Around 8:30. They said the wires were old, short-circuited. The fire department just left. The market's still being cleaned up." Old Chen said, "Xiao Zhao, let me tell you the truth today.
That rule—I didn't make it up. It was passed down by the old master who taught me. When he told me, he said 'Just do it, don't ask.'
He did this for forty years, I did it for thirty, now it's your turn. You gave scallions for three days, and she came back to tell you it wasn't over. Do you know how much of a favor that is?"
I couldn't speak. My throat felt stuffed with cotton—swallowing hurt.
Old Chen said, "Stay home today. Don't go out. And don't rush to set up tomorrow either. Wait until I make some calls and find out what's going on. Then I'll let you know." Then he hung up.
I put the phone on my knee. The screen showed the call history—Old Chen's name at the top, call duration one minute forty-three seconds.
I leaned back against the sofa, my head resting on the worn leather. I stared at the ceiling. There was a long, thin crack running from the edge of the ceiling light to the corner. I'd never noticed it before.
Fire at 8:30. If I'd gone to the market today, I would have arrived around eight. I would have been standing at my stall when the fire started.
Old Zhou's dried goods, my foam boxes, Ah Qiang's oxygen pumps. The fire jumped from the wires, spread along the steel frame of the ceiling, into the dried goods, onto the foam boxes.
I imagined the scene: flames jumping from the wires above my head, landing on the water-sprayed vegetable leaves, hissing. Then smoke—thick smoke that stings your eyes, makes you choke.
I didn't think about it further. I sat up, picked up my phone to call my wife. But when my finger hovered over her name in the contacts, I suddenly didn't know what to say.
Tell her "I almost got burned alive today"? Tell her "A stranger saved my life"? What would she think? Her mom was still in the hospital. I couldn't make her worry about me too.
I put the phone down.
In the afternoon, I went to the market.
Not to set up the stall—just to see. I arrived around three. The market was already closed. A notice was taped to the big iron gate: "Temporarily closed for electrical inspection."
But the gatekeeper knew me and let me in.
The vegetable section was dark—only a few emergency lights on the ceiling, casting a dim yellow glow. I walked past the meat section, past the tofu section, to the vegetable section. From a distance, I could see the state of my row.
The burn marks were like a dividing line, cutting across that row of stalls. Three stalls on the left were untouched. A few on the right were fine too. Only the middle three were charred black.
Old Zhou's dried goods stall was the worst. All his stock—wood ears, mushrooms, yuba, dried chili peppers—were dry, all highly flammable. They burned down to a pile of charcoal. Even the metal racks were warped.
My stall was to Old Zhou's right. Seven or eight foam boxes—two-thirds melted. The electronic scale was a lump of black plastic. The drawer where I'd kept the scissor had exploded open. The scissor lay on the ground, its blade turned blue from the heat.
Ah Qiang's seafood stall was to my right. Two glass tanks had cracked. The floor was covered in water, mixed with the overpowering stench of dead fish.
I stood in front of the ruins of my stall, hands in my pockets, unable to speak. There was a puddle of black water on the ground—melted foam, maybe, or something else.
I touched it with the toe of my shoe. The black water rippled, reflecting the yellow emergency light above.
Old Zhou walked up behind me. He offered me a cigarette. I took it. He lit his lighter and held it out. I leaned in, lit it, took a drag.
Old Zhou lit one for himself too. We stood in front of the ruins, smoking in silence.
"Fuck. Twenty years here, first time something like this happens." Old Zhou's voice was raw, like smoke had damaged his throat. "Electrical short. Happened in seconds.
I was sitting there weighing mushrooms for a customer. Bang—sparks fell from above my head. Lucky I bent down to grab a plastic bag. The sparks landed behind me, burned a hole in my jacket.
If I hadn't bent over, I'd have a hole in my head."
I said, "Glad you're okay."
Old Zhou flicked his ash. "You're the lucky one—you didn't come today. Your stall burned even worse than mine. See that?"
He pointed at a blackened steel beam above. "That one. The wires up there—right where the fire started. Directly above your head. If you'd been standing there, you wouldn't have had time to run."
I looked up at the steel beam. It was blackened beyond recognition. The wire insulation had melted away, exposing charred copper underneath. Where I stood—directly underneath that beam.
Old Zhou rambled on—how lucky we were, how the insurance might not cover it, how fast the fire department came.
I listened, smoking one cigarette after another. By the third one, I asked, "Old Zhou, who was the first customer at the market today?"
Old Zhou froze, thought for a second. "Early six something. A woman came by. Walked around your row, then left. Later some old guy came, bought potatoes from Old Liu's stall. Why ask?"
My heart skipped a beat. "What did the woman look like?" Old Zhou frowned, trying to remember. "Didn't pay much attention. Just remember she was dressed neat—maybe a trench coat? Walked around and left. I thought she was a regular of yours looking for you." He sighed. "Your stall's burned to hell. She won't find you tomorrow even if she comes."
I didn't reply. I finished the last cigarette, crushed the butt on the ground, and told Old Zhou I was leaving.
I walked out the market gate, stood on the street, feeling the October wind. It carried the smell of burnt plastic, drifting out from the gaps in the market shed.
I pulled out my phone, wanting to call the woman. Then I realized—I didn't have her number. Didn't know her name. Didn't know where she lived.
I knew nothing about her. But she knew my stall would catch fire.
I stood on the street for a long time—long enough for the streetlights to come on.
That night, I went home, cooked a simple bowl of noodles, and sat on the sofa in a daze. The TV was on, but I wasn't watching it.
My mind kept replaying everything—the woman, the scallions, the bag of fruit, every word she said.
I picked up my phone, opened the notes app, and typed every word she said, like taking a statement. She said the market's energy was messy.
She said the first customer not buying means they took the evil for you. She said giving scallions gives chōng. She said something was still following me. She said she came for three days to contain it. She said she couldn't come on the fourth day.
After typing, I stared at the screen for a long time. Then I thought of something—a question I'd been avoiding since I got home: was that "thing" still here?
Was the fire caused by that "thing"? Or was the fire itself the "thing"? If so, once it burned out, was it gone? If not—where was it now?
I turned off the phone screen. The room went dark. The curtains were open. Streetlight came through the window, casting a blurry, flickering patch of light on the wall.
It was the wind blowing the tree branches downstairs. I closed my eyes and forced myself to sleep. But every time I was about to drift off, I heard a sound—soft, indistinct, like plastic rubbing together.
Shhh. Shhh.
I opened my eyes. Nothing in the room. The plastic bags were in the kitchen—probably the wind. I pulled the blanket over my ears, rolled over, turned my back to the window. I don't know how long it took, but eventually I fell asleep.
Four days later, she came.
That afternoon, I'd just finished the fire registration at the market management office. As I walked out the market gate, I saw her standing on the street.
Same khaki trench coat, same canvas bag, hair still in a low ponytail. She stood under a sycamore tree. Half the leaves had fallen; the rest were yellow and dry, rustling in the wind.
I walked up to her. For some reason, seeing her made me feel... relieved.
She said, "You didn't come. Good."
I asked her, "Is that thing still here?"
She looked into my eyes. Those unnaturally deep black eyes blinked—still that unnaturally slow blink. She said, "No. The fire took it away."
When I heard those words, my shoulders relaxed. It felt like putting down a heavy load I'd been carrying all day—aching spreading from my shoulder blades to my fingertips.
I said, "Who are you? How did you know the fire would happen? Are you..." I paused. "Are you human?"
My heart was pounding when I asked that last question. Standing on a busy street in broad daylight, asking a living person "Are you human?"—I'd have thought I was crazy before.
But after the fire, crazy didn't matter anymore. I just needed to know.
She looked at me, her mouth twitching slightly, forming a smile that didn't quite work. Like she didn't smile often, so the muscles weren't used to it. She pulled something from her canvas bag and held it out.
I took it and looked down.
It was a bunch of scallions. Fresh, green, tied neatly with straw—seven or eight stalks.
I looked up at her.
She said, "Don't ask. Just take it."
I looked down at the scallions again. The white parts still had a bit of soil, glowing green in the sunlight. Then I looked up—she was gone.
I stood under the tree, holding the scallions, looking left and right. A few people came and went through the market gate. Some tricycles were parked by the road. Across the street was a Lanzhou noodle shop—their worker was squatting at the door, picking vegetables.
Everything was normal. Everyday. Ordinary. Like she'd never stood there at all.
I never saw her again after that day.
Later, the market was renovated. All the electrical wiring was replaced. My stall was fixed up too.
Old Chen called several times, asking if I wanted to renew the lease. He said his health was better and he wanted to come back, but his wife wouldn't let him—said he'd work himself to death.
I told him I'd think about it. I thought for a week, then decided to stay.
Not for any particular reason. It just felt like this place, this stall, this rule—they'd woven some kind of invisible thread between me and them. If I left, it would feel like I owed something. Owed who? I didn't know.
The day I reopened was a Monday. At six in the morning, I set up the stall, arranged the vegetables, sprayed them with water. Old Zhou was busy next door. Auntie Liu was her usual self—nagging everyone about her son's love life.
Ah Qiang had new fish tanks, the glass sparkling. Everything was exactly the same as before. I stood behind the stall, waiting for the first customer.
At 6:15, an auntie walked up. She picked up a bunch of celery, looked at it, put it down. Then she touched my tomatoes, felt them, put them down too. Finally, she bought nothing and turned to leave.
I froze.
I pulled a bunch of scallions from under the stall and jogged after her. "Auntie, wait! Here, take this bunch of scallions. Don't leave empty-handed."
The auntie turned around, took the scallions, and smiled broadly. "Oh, what a nice young man! I'll be back tomorrow!"
I watched her walk away, then slowly returned to the stall. The foam box held neat rows of scallions, each tied with straw. About a dozen bunches. Enough to give away for a while.
I stood behind the stall, hands in my apron pockets. The tip of my right finger touched something. I pulled it out.
It was a piece of straw—dry and yellow, with a single thin strand of hair wrapped around it. Not my hair.
I looked at that piece of straw, and suddenly remembered the last thing she said: "The fire took it away." She said the fire had taken that thing away.
But she never said where the fire came from. And I didn't ask. Some things—if you know too much, it might not be a good thing.
The new fluorescent light above was blindingly white, leaving no shadows on the stall. I put the straw back in my pocket, rubbed my hands together, and waited for the next customer.
Outside, the sky was already bright.