Two Fifteen AM

Two twelve in the morning. Xiao Chen took the tuna onigiri out of the fridge and put it in the microwave. Thirty seconds, just enough to warm it without making it hot. He placed it in the small basket next to the register, then moved a carton of milk from the cold shelf to room temperature.

He looked at the clock on the wall. Two fourteen.

She was always on time.

Xiao Chen had been working the night shift at this convenience store for four months. The woman had been coming for two. Wednesday through Sunday, two fifteen in the morning, give or take two minutes. The door sensor chimed "Welcome" as she pushed through, the sound crisp and lonely in the empty store.

She never acknowledged it. She walked straight to the counter, picked up the onigiri and milk he'd already set out, and paid with her phone—screen always lit before she even reached the register.

The first time Xiao Chen offered to heat her onigiri, he'd asked casually, "Want me to warm that up?" She'd paused, then nodded. After that, he started heating it for her around two ten, without being asked.

He never asked why she came at that hour. At two in the morning, this city's convenience stores saw all kinds—food delivery riders just off shift, programmers who'd coded themselves into a stupor, young people still throwing up from the bar, old men who couldn't sleep and came out to buy cigarettes.

She was none of those.

She looked to be in her forties, hair pulled tight, stray strands pinned back with black clips. She rotated through the same few outfits—a dark blue puffer jacket, or a gray knit cardigan. Flat cloth shoes that made almost no sound when she walked.

She didn't leave right away after paying. She would stand by the magazine rack near the door, lean against the wall, unwrap the onigiri, and eat it in small, careful bites. The milk too—unscrew the cap, drink half, screw it back on, tuck it into her bag.

About five minutes, every time. Then she'd push through the door and disappear into the early-morning streets. Xiao Chen watched her through the glass. She always headed east, turned right at the intersection, and vanished into the alleyways of the old residential block.

He figured she worked at the hospital. The city hospital was eight hundred meters east. If she got off the night shift at two, she'd reach the store right around two fifteen.

One Wednesday, about three months in, she didn't show.

Xiao Chen waited until two thirty. The onigiri had gone cold, so he reheated it. By three, he ate it himself.

She didn't come Thursday. Or Friday. Or Sunday.

He checked her loyalty points—her last purchase had been a Tuesday. She never came on Mondays or Tuesdays, but that week she had. She'd bought her usual things, then stood at the counter longer than usual, like she wanted to say something. In the end, she said nothing and walked out.

That was the last time he saw her.

About two weeks later, a young man pushed through the door in the middle of the night.

Xiao Chen had been dozing off. The "Welcome" chime jolted him awake. He glanced at the clock—two fourteen.

The man was mid-twenties, glasses, a wrinkled plaid shirt, eyes a little swollen. He walked up to the counter and looked at the empty basket next to the register.

"You have tuna onigiri?" he asked.

"Yeah." Xiao Chen pulled one from the fridge. "Want me to heat it?"

The young man nodded.

Xiao Chen put it in the microwave. Thirty seconds. Ding. He set it on the counter. The young man also grabbed a carton of milk from the cold shelf.

Scan, pay. The exact same sequence. But he was doing all of it for the first time.

Xiao Chen looked at him and couldn't help himself.

"Do you know a woman, maybe in her forties? Long hair, pulled back, dark blue puffer jacket. Used to come here every night around this time. Same thing—tuna onigiri and milk."

The young man's hands paused mid-unwrap.

"That's my mom."

Xiao Chen didn't say anything.

"She passed," the young man said, flat as weather. "Liver cancer. Last month."

Xiao Chen didn't know what to say. After a few seconds of silence, he managed, "She came every night. Never missed."

"I know." The young man broke the onigiri in half but didn't eat. Just held it. "She'd get off work and go straight to the hospital to see my dad. This was her dinner stop. My dad was in there too—stomach cancer. Diagnosed three months before her."

Xiao Chen opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

"My dad never knew she was sick too. She told him it was nothing, just some medicine. She'd stay at the hospital with him until one thirty in the morning, then come out and eat an onigiri here. That was her dinner."

The young man shoved half the onigiri into his mouth. He chewed for a long time before swallowing.

"My dad passed last month too. Eleven days apart."

He folded the remaining half into its wrapper, slipped it into his pocket. The milk stayed unopened.

"I just wanted to stand where she stood for a while."

Xiao Chen watched him. The convenience store at two in the morning, fluorescent lights almost white, casting a thin gray pallor over everything.

The young man stood there a little longer, then headed for the door. At the threshold, he turned around.

"Thanks," he said.

The door sensor chimed: Thank you, come again.

Xiao Chen watched him head east, turn right at the intersection, disappear into the alleyways of the old residential block.

He picked up the carton of milk from the room-temperature shelf and put it back in the cold case.