The Way Back

At closing time, Shuyin slides the last folder into the tray and shuts down her computer. The photograph stays beside the monitor, its binder clip tilted toward the chair. She checks that it will hold, then puts on Yanqiao’s coat.

The red thread slips through the office doorway after her. It follows the strap of her bag down the stairs, past the delivery cart that still blocks half the hall, and out to the bicycle rack.

Shuyin pulls the bicycle free. The silver bell is dulled by the day’s damp, and a bead of rain clings to the handlebar. She wipes it away with her thumb, then settles her bag into the basket. The key and red hair tie circle her wrist beneath the coat cuff. She doesn’t look down at them, but her fingers brush the knot as she adjusts her sleeve.

The rain is light enough to ride through. She leaves the office building and turns toward the river road, the same route she took in the morning. Cars inch through the evening traffic. A bus sighs at the curb, and the smell of wet pavement rises under the bicycle tires.

At the first crossing, she presses the bell for a man stepping backward off the curb. It gives a thin, tired click. He turns anyway, and Shuyin lifts a hand in apology as she pedals past.

The red thread runs beside her, visible only from where I am. It catches once on the bicycle basket, then draws taut and follows her on.

At the next light, Shuyin stops with one shoe on the ground. Rain gathers at the edge of her hood. A delivery rider rolls up beside her and looks at the bell.

“Those old ones never work,” he says.

“This one works when it feels like it.” She presses it once. A faint chime comes out, more metal than sound.

He grins. “There you go.”

The light changes. They ride in separate directions.

Shuyin doesn’t take the station road. She turns onto the narrower street with the grocery shops, where people crowd beneath awnings and carry paper bags close to their chests. At a small produce store, she locks the bicycle outside and goes in for greens, eggs, and a packet of noodles. The shopkeeper asks if she wants a bag.

“I brought one.” Shuyin holds up the folded canvas bag from her basket.

“Good. It’s coming down harder.”

By the time she steps out again, the rain has thickened to a steady patter. She packs the groceries low in the basket and checks that the eggs won’t slide. The coat’s sleeves are damp at the cuffs. She pulls them down over her hands and starts for home.

A few streets later, the bicycle chain skips. Her foot slips against the pedal, and she catches the handlebar before the front wheel veers toward the curb. She coasts to a stop beneath the awning of a closed pharmacy.