Want Want Little Steamed Buns

At 3:17 a.m., when he pushed the door open, the door sensor chimed its usual "Welcome."

I didn't look up. People who turn up at this hour want cigarettes, or liquor, or they're the kind who can't sleep until dawn. But he wasn't any of those—he walked to the back shelf, grabbed a bottle of Nongfu Spring water and a pack of Want Want Little Steamed Buns, then came to the counter. Scan, pay, leave. Not a word.

The first time I saw him was last month. It was raining. He wore a dark blue jacket washed so many times it had turned pale, his wet hair plastered to his forehead. I looked at him twice because of what he was holding: a man in his forties, at three in the morning, buying a bottle of water and a pack of baby snacks.

He's come every day since. Without fail, around quarter past three. Always the same: one Nongfu Spring, one pack of Want Want Little Steamed Buns.

I started guessing what he did. Cab driver on the night shift? Didn't seem like it—he walked slowly, without that rushed edge. An insomniac programmer? Not that either—his eyes were steady, not that unfocused glaze you get from staring at a screen too long. Eventually I told myself, none of my business.

But the thing about people is: when something repeats often enough, you start waiting for it.

Some nights he'd be a few minutes late, and I'd catch myself glancing at the door. He'd wear a different jacket and a thought would pop into my head: Oh, that one today. I started noting the details of his clothes, the rhythm of his walk, the way he set things on the counter—gently, as if afraid of waking someone.

Tonight he was forty minutes late.

I thought he wasn't coming. At 3:55, as I was about to check the shelves, the door sensor went off. He walked in quicker than usual, face expressionless, but his eyes were a little red.

He picked up the water and the Little Steamed Buns, came to the counter.

As I scanned the items, he spoke.

"Her old shop. It was on the next street over."

I froze for a second, looked up at him. He wasn't looking at me; he was staring at the barcode scanner in my hand.

"What shop?" I asked.

"A convenience store. She ran it herself. Roughly the size of this one." He paused. "When she worked the night shift, I'd bring her these two things. She said she got thirsty at night. The buns, those were to cheer up kids who got cranky."

I didn't say anything.

"Then the shop closed," he said. "And she was gone."

He paid, picked up the plastic bag, and turned to leave.

"You'll be back tomorrow?" The words were out before I could stop them.

He stopped at the door, his back to me, and stood there for two seconds, right in the sensor's range so the machine kept chiming.

"Yeah," he said, and pushed the door open.

Through the glass, I watched his silhouette disappear between the rows of shuttered shops.

There were three more packs of Want Want Little Steamed Buns on the shelf. I walked over, grabbed all three, and put them in the cabinet behind the counter.

Just in case they didn't restock by the time he came tomorrow.