The Old Man Who Bought Water

During my first week on the night shift at the convenience store, I noticed the old man.

It wasn't hard to. He came every night at exactly 2:25 a.m. The glass door would slide open, the bell would chime, and he would walk in wearing a faded navy jacket, his steps unhurried but steady, like someone who had been walking through the dark for years.

He never lingered in the aisles. Right turn, grab a bottle of Nongfu Spring water, then straight to the counter for a pack of Chunghwa cigarettes. The whole thing took under forty seconds.

Scan. Fourteen yuan fifty. He'd hand me a twenty, I'd give him five-fifty in change. He'd take the coins and the receipt, turn around, and leave.

Not a single word.

By the second week, I started setting the water and cigarettes out for him before he arrived. Around 2:20, I'd place them on the counter. He'd push through the door, see them already there, and pause. Then he'd lift his eyes and look at me.

Just once. Then he'd put down the money, take his things, and go.

That was the first time he looked at me.

One night during the third week, I couldn't help myself. As he was pulling out his money, I said, "You come every night. You don't sleep much, huh?"

He set the bill on the counter, his finger resting on the edge of it for two full seconds. I thought he was about to speak. Instead, he slid the bill half an inch forward and waited for his change.

When I dropped the coins into his palm, he nodded. No smile, but there was something in that nod—everything an inarticulate man would want to say if he knew how.

After that, I set his things out every night. He'd walk in, glance at the water and cigarettes on the counter, then at me, then put down his money, take his things, and leave. Sometimes he nodded. Sometimes he didn't. But he never looked anywhere else.

I made up stories about him. Around seventy, graying hair, neatly trimmed nails. Not homeless, but not the kind of old man whose children still visit—because his silence wasn't a personality trait. It was an accumulation, years of having no one to talk to, settling into him like sediment.

He walked toward the street across from the store, toward the old factory housing complex—red-brick buildings with peeling walls. Demolition notices had been posted at the start of the year. A few households were still holding out. He was probably one of them.

At 2:40 a.m., I'd lean on the counter and look out the window. Only two windows in the building across the street still had lights on. The third window on the third floor glowed with the yellow tint of an old incandescent bulb. I decided that was his. Because after he walked in, that light would come on around three and go off before five.

I never confirmed it. But in my head, I completed the story: an old man living alone, his wife gone, his children far away, coming to the convenience store at 2:30 every morning not for the water or the cigarettes, but for the act of leaving the house, walking somewhere, seeing another human face. Even if it was just the cashier at the 24-hour store.

The fourth week, he didn't come.

The first night, I thought he was just late. I put the water and cigarettes on the counter and waited until three. He never showed. I put them back, feeling something in my chest that wouldn't settle.

The second night, I set them out again. Still nothing.

The third night, I didn't. But I kept watching the door.

On the fourth night, at 2:30, a middle-aged man in a gray jacket pushed through the door. He walked up to the counter and hesitated. "Are you the girl on the night shift?" he asked.

I said yes.

"My father asked me to thank you. He's been in the hospital since last week. Can't walk. He told me to come tell you."

"What's wrong with him?"

"His lungs. Old problem." He smiled, a little strained. "He said he comes out every night for a walk, stops by here. Said your water is two mao cheaper than anywhere else."

I didn't tell him I was the reason for the two mao. The register couldn't change prices, so I made up the difference myself, dropping two extra mao into the drawer before clocking out every morning.

The man bought a pack of Chunghwa and left.

After that, I still placed a bottle of Nongfu Spring on the counter every night at 2:25. Not on top of the counter—under it, by my feet, where only I could see. I knew he wasn't coming back, but I couldn't stop.

Two weeks later, at three in the morning as I was clocking out, my phone buzzed. Unknown number. One line:

"Thank you for the water."

No name. I didn't reply. I put my phone in my pocket, pushed open the convenience store door, and walked across the street. The third window on the third floor of the red-brick building was dark. The demolition notice under the streetlight had been rained on until the words were barely legible. I stood there for a while, then turned and walked away.

The next day, I bought two bottles of Nongfu Spring. One for myself, and one to keep under the counter. Same spot.

If there are things in this life you never got to say, I suppose this is what they look like.