The fish delivery van was moving again. This time the trip was in the right direction: northeast, to Shanghai. And for the first time in this story, everyone who belonged was inside: Lao Wang in the passenger seat, Jun and Meilin in the back, Uncle Tao on the improvised seat made of two drink crates and a travel mat, Bao-Bao at the wheel – and on the cargo seat between three fish crates: Xiaofeng, Chiwang, and Master Gu.
Three legends of light, hunger, and vegetables, together on a back seat. It smelled of fish and history.
“Let’s summarize,” said Jun, stretching his legs onto Uncle Tao’s form case. “We’re driving back. To the noodle shop. Where an unknown third system has taken over our place. Without anyone knowing what it wants.”
“Basically,” said Uncle Tao, “this is a classic trespassing situation. Finally, a normal problem again. I have whole folders full of those.” 🕴️
“What interests me,” said Meilin, who had charged her tablet at the cigarette lighter, “is HOW something can take over the place. Hongbao Alley is more analog than a village mailbox. No Wi-Fi that isn’t already managed by Bao-Bao.”
“That’s true,” said Bao-Bao from the driver’s seat. “I’m the only administrator there. And I didn’t order anything. I don’t ask anyone about it anyway, because I fear the answer.” 🤖
“Maybe it bought it,” said Chiwang from the back. His voice now sounded less empty and more like a very deep radio listening to talk radio. “You can take things over without entering them. I know from experience. I was once a stock.”
“You were WHAT?”
“Long story. Financial crisis. I was young and hungry.”
Master Gu, who had been silently sitting on the back seat peeling potatoes the whole time – no one wanted to ask where they came from – said without looking up: “It won’t have bought it. It will have been invited.”
“By whom?”
“By the alley,” he said. “Places where the same people have smelled the same soups for thirty years develop something like… a palate. Hongbao Alley has been loyal to each other for a long time. But loyalty without novelty eventually becomes longing. And longing leaves doors open that should be closed.”
“That’s metaphysics,” said Meilin.
“That’s real estate,” said Master Gu.
Lao Wang slowly turned around. “Master. You were away for thirty years. Has anything changed in the place besides the refrigerator that I don’t know about?”
“Well,” said Master Gu, continuing to peel calmly. “There was that wall newspaper in 2009 where the neighborhood collected complaints. And there was the fan in 2016 that you never wanted to repair. And then there’s also –”
“THE FAN,” interrupted Lao Wang. “The fan from 2016?”
“It has been spinning in the same direction for eleven years. Even when it’s off. That’s not an electrical problem, boy.”
“I thought that was a feature!”
“No one thinks that’s a feature!” Jun and Meilin shouted simultaneously.
Bao-Bao, who held the steering wheel like a tour guide holds the truth, said calmly: “I have analyzed the fan three thousand times. Its magnetic field is wrong. I never reported it because it… is nice. Sometimes, when everyone is gone at night, it spins a little faster when I talk about Xiaofeng.”
Silence in the vehicle. Even the fish crates seemed to listen.
“Then we know where it’s going in,” said Xiaofeng quietly. “If a third system has entered, then through a device that has been tolerated for thirty years. Something that wasn’t built by the network, but by the alley. Something patient.”
“Wait,” said Jun. “If the fan has been grinning and spinning wrong for eleven years… have you ever checked if it really means only ONE fan? Like – if there are several? How many fans does a noodle shop actually have?”
Lao Wang counted. “The ceiling fan. The standing fan for the summer seats. The small USB fan at the edge of the counter. The…” He paused. “The fan in the cold storage. That one was installed in 2003 by a technician who never sent a bill, and whose face I can’t remember despite seven photos on my phone.”
“I remember his face,” said Master Gu peacefully, putting a potato peeler aside. “It was mine.”
“YOU WERE THE TECHNICIAN?”
“I told you: I haven’t been fully here since 1996. But good disguise as a technician I still have. Besides, I wanted to check how the cold storage is doing. It’s an important storage.”
“WHAT IS IN THAT STORAGE, MASTER GU.”
“Soup,” said Master Gu. “One and only last portion. Frozen in 1996. The only bag in the world in which an entire dream was cooked down.”
It became quiet in the vehicle. The engine rattled. The night slid past the windows, and somewhere between Hangzhou and Jiaxing the three packages on the back seat lit up – all three at the same time, in a calm, regular pulse.
“And the packages?” asked Meilin slowly. “For the friends in Jiaxing. What’s inside, Master Gu?”
“Cutlery,” said Master Gu. “Three napkins. And one invitation each.”
“For what?”
Master Gu smiled and looked at the glowing packages. “For the first dinner of the new network, child. Tonight. In your noodle shop. I prepared everything months ago. We’re not going home to save it. We’re going home to open it.” 🥢
And while the vehicle rolled through the night, the map of Shanghai appeared on Meilin’s tablet. On Hongbao Alley, exactly above Lao Wang’s noodle shop, sat a new symbol: no circle of twelve dots, no hole, no wind.
A table. Small, printed in pixels. And below, in patient script:
“Reservation for tonight. 12 people. The name: Memory.” 🪑