Dawn found Ling Hao already awake, elbows on the windowsill, watching the sun clear the rooftops while the first birds started arguing over territory in the eave above his window.
How much can I actually pull in today?
He glanced at the stuffed animals stacked in the corner — the fox with its stubborn ear, two rabbits, the dog he'd finished stitching by candlelight the night before. Something in his chest eased at the sight of them. Equal parts pride and disbelief.
"Guess this skill follows you everywhere." Quiet. A little embarrassed at how much he meant it.
---
The street outside was already working. A baker's boy jogged past with a tray balanced on one shoulder, steam curling off the loaves. Someone at the fish stall was losing an argument about weight. A cart wheel had lodged itself in a rut near the well, and its owner cursed it steadily, without much heat, like the whole thing was routine.
Nobody looked twice at Ling Hao. He liked that. Better background noise than a target.
He reached his usual spot, cloth bundle under one arm.
Bold pitch today, or play it safe?
He closed his eyes. Opened them. Nodded once to nobody and shrugged.
Funds are thin. Missed a night's rent already this month. Can't afford to lose another.
He laid the toys out — rabbit on the left, dog center, the fox tucked slightly behind where the bad ear wouldn't be the first thing anyone noticed. Stepped back. Nodded, satisfied enough.
Time to work.
---
A cluster of kids spotted him first — four or five of them, book bags still slung over their shoulders, clearly supposed to be somewhere else. They slowed when they saw the stall.
Ling Hao moved into the moment before it could pass him by.
"Morning, troops." He crouched to their height without quite meaning to. "You all look like you're having an excellent day."
"Hi mister," one of them said. Another just stared at the toys.
He let a beat pass — long enough that a few adults walking past slowed their own pace to see what had stopped the kids.
"Can I ask you something important?" Easy voice. Conversational. Nothing that would spook them yet. "You ever play with your friends and something just feels — off? Like there's a piece missing and you can't say what it is?"
Heads bobbed. Immediate, unanimous, the way kids agree to anything framed as a shared secret.
"Yeah!" one of them said. "Like when Wen Lu takes the good stick and won't share it."
"Exactly that." Like the boy had just proven a theorem. "That missing piece. I happen to have a fix for it."
He stepped aside and let them see the stall properly. Four small bodies swarmed the cloth at once.
"For the parents out there," he called, pitching his voice just far enough to reach the adults who'd stopped nearby, "who can't always be around because work doesn't ask permission — this is the easiest problem you'll solve all week."
A few adults actually stopped walking now. He noted it without looking at them directly. Looking too eager killed a sale faster than anything.
Careful. Sell to the kids. Let the parents overhear the rest.
First in line was a little girl clutching the dog like she'd already decided it was hers.
"Mister, how much?"
"One silver," Ling Hao said. "This one's called the Wandering Dog."
The kids huddled, comparing pockets. It became obvious fast — nobody in the group had more than a single copper coin, total.
She looked crushed in the specific, total way only a six-year-old can manage.
"Wait here." She took off toward the noodle stall two rows over, where a woman in a faded blue apron was mid-argument with a spice seller about pepper prices.
She came back towing her mother by the sleeve.
The woman took one look — unfamiliar toys, a stranger crouched at kid height, a small crowd starting to gather — and her expression settled into the flat read of someone who'd raised children long enough to spot a con from thirty feet.
"What exactly is this."
Not really a question. More an opening statement.
Ling Hao stood, resetting from friendly uncle to reasonable business owner in one breath.
"Handmade toys, ma'am. Nothing more complicated than that."
"One silver for a bag of stuffing sewn into a dog shape." Arms crossed. "That's a week of noodles."
A second parent had drifted closer by now. Then a third. The particular gravity a skeptical adult generates, pulling in anyone nearby who'd rather not miss a scene. Ling Hao felt the shift immediately — fewer curious kids in the crowd now, more crossed arms at adult height.
This is the part where I either fix it or lose the whole morning.
He didn't reach for the sister story. Wrong audience. Parents weren't nobility looking to be flattered, and grief theater plays differently in front of people who've actually buried someone. He needed something that held up to a second look, not just the first one.
"Fair question." He meant it plainly enough that a couple of the crossed arms loosened. "Pick it up. Check the stitching yourself."
She hesitated. Then did.
Turned the dog over once, thumb running along a seam. Ling Hao watched her check exactly the spots he'd have checked — seam tension, stuffing density, whether the eyes were sewn tight enough to survive a toddler's grip.
"It's solid work," she admitted. Grudging. "Still steep for one silver."
"Buy two, I'll do both for one silver eight copper." He was already digging into his bundle for the second dog — nearly identical, one ear stitched a shade darker than its twin, leftover thread from a shortage two nights back. "Whole street wants in, we can talk a real number."
She glanced sideways at the friend beside her, arms still crossed but watching now with more interest than suspicion. A short, wordless negotiation passed between them.
"We'll take two," the friend said. "One for each of them."
The first mother looked down at her daughter, who hadn't let go of the dog once since Ling Hao handed it over.
"Fine." She dug out her coin. "One silver eight, split between us."
Ling Hao held his hand out like the number had never been in question.
"Deal."
He'd have taken less. He didn't say so.
By early afternoon every rabbit was gone, both dogs had gone home in different arms, and even the crooked-eared fox found a buyer — a father who'd wandered over out of curiosity and stayed to watch the whole show unfold. Ling Hao counted the total twice back at the inn, out of habit more than doubt.
Not bad. Not enough to stop worrying. But not bad.
---
Afternoon settled into the inn's common room the way it always did — quiet, a couple of regulars nursing drinks they'd started nursing before noon, the innkeeper wiping the same stretch of counter for the third time that hour.
Ling Hao sat near the window with a bowl of noodles he hadn't touched in a few minutes, more interested in doing the math on how many days his coin bought him than in actually eating.
The door opened.
Two figures came in wearing dark robes, hoods up despite the mild afternoon — nothing unusual on its own, plenty of travelers kept hoods up out of habit rather than need. They crossed the room without a word to the innkeeper, without ordering anything, and settled into the corner table furthest from the window.
Ling Hao glanced over once. Filed it. Went back to his noodles.
Somebody's avoiding somebody. Not my business.
He'd learned that early, in a life that felt further away every week — you don't get involved in other people's business unless it walks up and introduces itself.
He ate. The noodles had gone lukewarm, which he minded less than he probably should have. Outside, the street kept its rhythm — a cart passing, someone calling a name twice before giving up on it.
The two figures hadn't moved. Hadn't spoken, as far as he could tell. Just sat there with their hoods up, doing absolutely nothing that should have held his attention this long.
He looked back down at his bowl.
Maybe a guy owes somebody money. Happens.
He picked his chopsticks back up.
A hand closed around his shoulder.
Firm. Not violent — not yet. The grip of someone who'd already decided he wasn't leaving that chair without a conversation first. His whole body went still before his mind caught up to why.
He turned his head.
Both figures had left the corner table.
Both stood directly behind him now.
Neither had said a word yet.