By 9:00PM, the last of the bowls had been cleared, chairs pushed back in, and chopsticks rested across empty plates.
The warm buzz of the restaurant had faded, replaced by the quiet clatter of cleanup, water running, cloth over table, metal trays stacked for washing.
Cheongsam slumped by the front door like a man twice his age, his usually quick steps sluggish.
He'd ushered the final customer out with a tired smile, but now his eyes were half-lidded, and his shoulders drooped as if the entire evening had drained the life out of him.
He shivered slightly in his shirt sleeves and glanced back toward the kitchen.
Mianmian was still moving — slowly, yes, but steadily — wiping down counters, restacking ingredients, tying off the trash.
"How do you do this every day…" he muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck.
Then he noticed a figure standing just outside the front window — tall, still, and oddly patient.
