The blue brick and gray tile roofs of Cloud Silk Old Town peeked through the gaps in the trees.
I smoothed my skirt. Dianzi walked beside me, her sheer skirt catching the light.
A stone arch bridge marked the entrance to the old town, its surface worn glossy by the years.
Two rows of red lanterns wound along the canal. They weren't lit yet, swaying gently in the breeze.
Under the bridge, a black-canopied boat slid slowly through. The boatwoman hummed a few lines as she poled, the melody too soft to catch the words.
On the stone arch bridge, a father bent over, pushing an enormous one-piece stroller.
Ten infants sat side by side inside the cabin, their wails bouncing off the bridge surface—rising and falling like an unrehearsed choir.
The father's hands gripped the handlebar, his knuckles thick, the veins on the back of his hands bulging with each push.
He paused on the bridge's slope, braced his knee against the bottom crossbar, ground his heel into the stone, then kept pushing upward.
His shirt was soaked through with sweat, the fabric clinging to his shoulder blades, tightening and loosening with each push.
The father didn't look back. He gripped the handlebar tighter and pushed step by step over the top of the bridge.
Half the infants' cries were scattered by the wind. The other half were swallowed by the water flowing under the bridge.
Crossing the bridge, I noticed someone crouching by the river below. He was squatting low, his camera lens almost touching the water's surface.
When he stood up, he nearly bumped into a tourist behind him. He stepped back, dipped his head, his fingers tightening on the camera strap.
Dianzi stopped walking. "Is that Zhao Dayong?"
He looked up, saw us, and froze. The lens cap nearly slipped from his hand. He caught it with his thumb.
"You came to the old town too." He clicked the lens cap on. The motion was smoother than last time by the pool.
"What a coincidence." I walked down from the bridge.
Zhao Dayong was wearing a deep blue shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Fine creases lined the fabric at the bend.
His camera bag was slung diagonally across his back, the faded keychain on the zipper still there, swaying gently.
Zhao Dayong raised his camera, aimed at the bridge, and pressed the shutter. Then he lowered the camera.
He told Dianzi to look at that father, pushing ten children and still walking so steadily.
Hanzi said she was photographing something else now. Zhao Dayong looked down at his screen, the corner of his mouth twitching.
The three of us walked deeper into the old town together. The stone-slab path echoed dully underfoot.
The red lanterns along both sides of the canal were coming on one after another, painting the water a warm red.
Each time a lantern lit, another small trembling halo appeared on the water's surface.
At a corner in the alley, a person in a cartoon headpiece pressed a black USB drive into another person's hand.
The cartoon face on the headpiece was grinning wide, but the voice that came from underneath was pressed low, squeezed through clenched teeth.
"Everything's in there. Absolutely won't shortchange you."
The person receiving the USB drive lifted a carrying case from beside their foot and unzipped it.
Inside, it was stuffed with stacks of cash, the bands still unbroken. Their finger paused on the band for a moment.
Then they zipped it shut, switched the case to the other hand, and walked quickly in the opposite direction.
The person in the cartoon headpiece grabbed the case and turned, disappearing into the depths of the alley.
The back of their head bobbed once under the lantern light and vanished around the corner.
A pack of wild kids burst out from the alley entrance, their footsteps slapping against the stone slabs.
The boy at the front crashed into the sugar-painting old man's stall. The brass ladle flew from the old man's hand, flipping half a turn in the air before hitting the ground.
The molten sugar splashed everywhere. The dragon he'd been pouring broke into several pieces. Its tail slowly hardened on the ground.
The old man crouched down to pick up the ladle, his knee joint emitting a faint crack. He didn't speak.
The children had already run far away, their laughter bouncing back from the alley corner, ricocheting off the blue brick walls several times before fading.
"Osmanthus sugar taro paste. Want to try some?" Dianzi pointed at the dessert shop below the bridge.
Zhao Dayong nodded. Hot porcelain bowls were brought over. The taro was soft and tender, the sugar broth clear and sweet.
Osmanthus petals floated on the surface, spinning gently with the rising steam.
I scooped up a taro ball with the wooden spoon and placed it in Zhao Dayong's bowl.
He picked it up, bit into it, and chewed twice. His cheeks puffed out. "Sweet."
The sugar-painting old man was pouring a new dragon. The brass ladle traced one extra line on the stone slab.
Beside the dragon's tail, an extremely fine arc stretched out, glowing amber under the light.
——I collect the truths of how this world devours people. And do my hobbies on the side.
Zhao Dayong picked up the last piece of osmanthus cake and placed it in his bowl. He lowered his head, ate it, and dusted the crumbs from his hands.
His camera sat on the edge of the table, the lens cap still off. He picked it up, wiped his thumb across the body, and clicked the cap on.
All the lanterns in the old town were lit now. The red glow reflected on the water, smeared into blurry ribbons of light by the evening wind.
Zhao Dayong stood up, walked to the riverbank, raised his camera, and aimed at the red lanterns on the bridge.
The shutter clicked once. Then he lowered the camera. He didn't check the screen.
He just stood there, looking at the river. His hand was steady—so steady that even he probably hadn't noticed.
The evening wind blew across the canal. The reflections of the red lanterns on the water were torn apart and gathered back together, gathered and torn apart again.
Dianzi drank the last mouthful of sugar broth. The bottom of the bowl revealed a blue calico pattern, dotted with a few unmelted grains of osmanthus.
In the distance, another black-canopied boat slipped through the bridge arch. The boatwoman's humming was carried over by the wind, fragmented, like an unfinished song.
Zhao Dayong still stood by the riverbank, his camera hanging at his chest, the lens cap reflecting the red glow of the lanterns.
Coming out of the old town, the sky had completely darkened.
We parted with Zhao Dayong at the alley entrance—he headed toward the pier, we returned to the hotel.
I changed into the maid outfit and stood before the floor-length mirror, making a final adjustment to the V-shaped chest strap.
Dianzi stepped out of the bathroom, the bow of her light pink maid apron tied neatly. She spun around, the hem of her skirt flaring up and settling back down.
"Zhao Dayong is already waiting downstairs." She picked up her light pink chain bag.