The Woman Who Came at Two in the Morning

The woman came every night.

Two in the morning, give or take five minutes. The convenience store doorbell chimed, and Xiao Zhou knew it was her. She always wore a faded dark blue cotton jacket, even in summer. Her hair was pulled tight with a black rubber band, so tight it stretched the skin near her temples.

She never spoke. She went straight to the cooler, took a bottle of water—two yuan. Then she turned to the shelf beside the counter and grabbed a pack of White Rabbit milk candies. Always these two items, never anything else.

When Xiao Zhou scanned the water, she had already placed three one-yuan coins on the counter. The water was two yuan, the candy five. Seven altogether. She had given him three.

"You're four short," Xiao Zhou said the first time.

She looked at him, said nothing, and fished out four more coins. The next night, she put down seven coins from the start. Still no words. Xiao Zhou took the money. She tucked the water into her jacket pocket, held the candy in her hand, and pushed through the door. The whole thing took less than a minute.

Xiao Zhou had worked at this convenience store for three months, and she had come every single night.

The store sat at the intersection of Guanghua Road and Jianshe Road. Not exactly remote, but after midnight the streets emptied out. Xiao Zhou worked the night shift, ten at night to six in the morning. The regulars were familiar—programmers buying instant noodles after overtime, cab drivers grabbing cigarettes after a few drinks, middle-aged men buying Red Bull for all-night poker games.

This woman, though. Xiao Zhou had never seen her during the day.

One night it rained. She came in soaked, hair plastered to her face, jacket dripping. Xiao Zhou reached behind the counter and offered her a pack of tissues. She froze for a moment, took it, pulled one out, wiped her forehead, and placed the rest on the counter. She didn't take it with her.

"Keep it," Xiao Zhou said.

She had already pushed through the door.

After that rainy night, Xiao Zhou began to notice her more. She was probably in her early forties, maybe younger—the crow's feet weren't deep, but something in her expression made her seem a decade older. She walked fast, took short strides, head down. Through the glass door, Xiao Zhou watched her go. Every time, she headed east along Guanghua Road, turned at the last streetlight, and disappeared into an old residential area.

Sometimes Xiao Zhou wondered: what did she do? Why come out at two in the morning to buy water and candy? But he had learned one thing from working the night shift: don't ask. People came to convenience stores for all kinds of reasons, especially at two in the morning. Ask too much, and nobody feels comfortable.

One night in late August, she didn't show.

Xiao Zhou checked his phone. Five past two. He figured she was running late. The doorbell stayed silent. Ten past two. He walked to the door and looked out. The street was empty, streetlights reflecting off the wet asphalt—a shower had just passed.

Two thirty. Still nothing. Xiao Zhou realized he had been staring at the door.

He had a regular customer, a cab driver called Lao Liu. Liu came every night around three to buy cigarettes, sometimes a bottle of beer. When he showed up that night, Xiao Zhou couldn't help himself.

"Liu, do you know who lives in those old buildings east of Guanghua Road?"

"That area? It's a demolition zone. Nobody's there anymore. Just a few holdouts. I heard they're moving out next month."

Xiao Zhou nodded and let it go.

The woman didn't come the next night. Or the night after.

A week later, Liu came in for cigarettes again. This time he brought it up himself.

"Xiao Zhou, you asked about those old buildings before?"

"Yeah."

"I picked up a passenger the other day, dropped her near there. She told me about a woman who lives in the area. Her son got hit by a car right outside your store last year."

Xiao Zhou's hand stopped mid-scan.

"The kid was seven. Playing with classmates on the sidewalk. A van ran a red light. Just like that." Liu tore open the cigarette pack and pulled one out. "When it happened, the kid was holding a pack of White Rabbit candy. Bought it at the corner store near their building."

Xiao Zhou said nothing.

"After that, the mother kind of lost it. Not crazy, exactly. Just—not right. She started going out every night, same time, buying water and White Rabbit candy at the convenience store. Same things her son bought that day. Her husband couldn't handle it. Divorced her by the end of the year. She's been living alone in that old building, refusing to move no matter how many times the demolition crew came."

Liu lit his cigarette, took a drag, exhaled.

"A few days ago, her sister came and took her away. Out of town, I think."

Xiao Zhou handed Liu his change. He glanced at the shelf next to the counter. Four packs of White Rabbit candy left.

When his shift ended that morning, Xiao Zhou took a pack of the candy. He tore it open and put one in his mouth. Overpoweringly sweet. He chewed as he walked down the street at six in the morning, the sun just rising, light hitting the surface of Guanghua Road. Right outside the store, on the stretch of asphalt laid three years ago, there was a patch slightly darker than the rest—like it had been repaired.

He stood in front of that dark patch for a long time.

Then he set the rest of the candy at the base of the utility pole and walked away.