Chen Jianguo turned on the faucet. Ice-cold tap water splashed his face, making him shiver. In the mirror, his face looked bloated, bags hanging under his eyes, white stubble sprouting from his temples.
He grabbed a razor and scraped twice carelessly. Nicked himself. A bead of blood welled up. He wiped it away with his thumb, then smudged it on his pants.
The kitchen light was already on. His wife Li Hongmei was dumping dough from a large basin onto the wooden board. The dough hit with a dull *thud*.
The air smelled of alkaline water mixed with yesterday's leftover meat filling. Chen Jianguo pulled on his faded blue apron and walked to the board, starting to knead.
Soon the dough balls were lined up, waiting to be rolled into wrappers, filled with meat, pinched into eighteen pleats, then steamed in bamboo baskets.
They'd done this routine for over a decade. Could do it with their eyes closed. The water in the steamer was already boiling, white steam hissing against the lid. The kitchen was hot, the window glass fogged over.
Outside it was still dark. When the first breakfast stall light flickered on at the alley entrance, Chen Jianguo's first basket of buns was ready. He checked his watch—fifteen minutes exactly.
That was the rule. Since his father had passed the shop to him: the first basket, once steamed, couldn't be sold. You had to uncover it, let the steam dissipate on its own, then bring it out to the counter.
"Why?" he'd asked as a young man.
His father hadn't looked up, wiping the stove with a rag. "They've been traveling all night," he'd mumbled. "They're hungry."
Chen Jianguo hadn't understood then. Later, he'd stopped asking. Just did it. Every morning, the first basket—white and plump in the bamboo steamer. When he lifted the lid, a cloud of steam erupted, rushing to the ceiling, dissolving into nothing.
He'd leave it on the back of the stove, wait for the steam to thin, fade, disappear entirely. Then carry it out to the glass display case one basket at a time.
But today was different.
It was Saturday. He'd just lifted the lid on the first basket, steam still thick, when someone knocked on the counter outside.
"Boss! Got the buns ready? Hurry up!"
Chen Jianguo peeked out. A young man in a suit and tie, watch glinting, was tapping his fingers impatiently on the glass. "Come on, come on—I've been waiting twenty minutes."
"Just a little longer," Chen Jianguo said. "This basket isn't ready yet."
"Why not? They look done to me—white and fluffy. You've got them right there!" The man craned his neck, eyes fixed on the steaming basket on the stove.
"Rule," Chen Jianguo said. "First basket needs to cool."
"What stupid rule? I've got a train to catch! You gonna pay if I miss it?" The young man raised his voice. Even the old man walking his dog down the alley turned to look.
Li Hongmei came out from the back, elbowed Chen Jianguo. "Alright, he's in a hurry. Just sell it. It's a basket of buns—what's the big deal?"
Chen Jianguo frowned. The steam on that basket had mostly dissipated anyway, just a thin wisp hovering above. Looked no different from any other basket of buns.
He hesitated a few seconds. The young man knocked twice more. His phone rang, shrill and annoying.
"Fine." Chen Jianguo wiped his hands on his apron, picked up the basket, and set it on the counter. As the bamboo lid lifted, the last wisp of steam drifted into the morning air and vanished. The buns smelled of warm wheat and savory meat—the rich aroma of naturally fermented dough.
"Thanks!" The young man scanned the QR code, stuffed them in a plastic bag, and hurried off.
Chen Jianguo watched his back disappear at the alley entrance. Something felt off. He couldn't pinpoint why, just an unease gnawing at him. He turned to the stove. The spot where the first basket usually sat was empty, leaving only a circular water stain on the countertop.
"Stop staring," Li Hongmei said. "Second basket's ready."
He pushed the feeling down, turned back to the board, picked up the freshly wrapped buns, and loaded them into the steamer. Water bubbled again, gurgling and hissing. The kitchen returned to its usual busy rhythm.
Business was unreal that day.
From the moment that first basket sold, customers kept coming. Normally they'd sell seven or eight baskets in a morning. By eight o'clock, ten were gone. Even the last few broken, leaking ones had been bought by an old man.
Chen Jianguo was exhausted, hands cramping from taking money. Finally, when the last regular carrying a soy milk bowl left, he leaned against the doorframe, legs trembling.
Li Hongmei was washing steamers in the back, water splashing. Chen Jianguo pulled out the cash drawer, dumped everything onto the table, and started counting. Piles of change, coins clinking as they rolled. He smoothed out the bills—ten, twenty, five, stacking them. Then he stopped.
There was an extra one.
A hundred-yuan note.
He held it up to the light coming through the door. Brand new, bright red, the Chairman's collar sharp and clear. But the texture felt wrong.
He rubbed it between his fingers. The paper had a strange, sticky drag—not smooth, not crisp. Like... He searched for a comparison, but the word that popped into his head was unsettling. Like ghost money.
Yes, exactly like the paper money burned during Qingming Festival. Even though it had RMB patterns printed on it, that cold, damp feeling seeped from his fingertips into his bones.
He pulled the note out separately, flipped it over and over. Watermark, golden thread, braille dots—everything seemed to be there. But something was... off. He called out: "Hongmei! Come look at this."
Li Hongmei came out with wet hands, took the note, glanced at it, flicked it with her nail. The sound was dull. "Where'd this come from? Fake money?"
"Don't know. Just showed up when I counted."
"Check the camera."
Chen Jianguo pulled up the entrance camera footage, fast-forwarding from the first customer of the day. People came and went, most paying by phone, few with cash.
The cash payments were all crumpled old notes. He dragged the progress bar back and forth, eyes stinging, but couldn't find who'd handed him this crisp hundred.
It was like it had appeared out of nowhere in the pile.
"Forget it," Li Hongmei said, tossing the note into the drawer. "Just a hundred. Be more careful next time. Turn off the lights, lock up, let's go home."
Chen Jianguo pulled down the roller shutter. The metal clattered, clicked shut. He stood at the door, looked back at the dark shop entrance. The red characters "Breakfast Buns" on the window flickered under the streetlight.
The alley was quiet. Not even a dog barked. He yawned and followed Li Hongmei home.
He slept dreamlessly that night.
At four a.m. the next day, Chen Jianguo woke up on time. His internal clock was more reliable than any alarm. He got dressed in the dark. Li Hongmei rolled over, mumbled "Don't feel like going today," and went back to sleep. He took the keys and went out alone.
April mornings were still cold. The streetlights stretched his shadow long. He hunched his shoulders, walked to his shop, and took out his keys. The roller shutter creaked as he pushed it up—loud in the quiet alley.
He went inside, flipped the switch on the wall as usual. The fluorescent light flickered twice, then lit up. The kitchen was silent, the steamer cold, flour on the board still in the same shape as when he'd closed up last night. He put on his apron, ready to start kneading dough.
Then he saw the stove.
On that back spot, where yesterday's basket had left a water ring, there now sat a bamboo steamer—neat and proper.
Bamboo basket, white lid. Thin wisps of white steam curled out from between the lid and basket. Slow, unhurried, like someone had lit an incense stick on the stove.
Chen Jianguo froze at the kitchen door. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
He'd personally turned off the fire at four a.m. The steamer was stone cold. Where had this basket come from? Who put it there? Most importantly—why was it still steaming?
His feet felt nailed to the floor. His throat went dry. He tried to shout, but his voice was stuck, like cotton in his windpipe.
He stared at the basket. More steam billowed out, rising slowly, gathering above the stove into a small white cloud. It didn't disperse. It hung there, like it had a shape.
The pale fluorescent light shone down. Through the fog, there seemed to be... something inside.
Chen Jianguo took a step forward. Just one step.
He saw it clearly.
In the middle of the white mist, a face faintly appeared. Features blurred, like looking at someone through rippling water—eyebrows and eyes indistinct, mouth slightly open. No expression. It just floated there, facing him, close enough that he could almost reach out and touch it.
Chen Jianguo gasped, stumbled backward. His lower back hit the corner of the cutting board, pain exploding behind his eyes. He grabbed the edge of the stove to steady himself—his fingers touched the bamboo lid. It was cold.
The face in the fog rippled, like water disturbed by a stone.
Chen Jianguo's mind went blank. Without thinking, he grabbed the lid and slammed it back down.
*Bang!*
The steamer was sealed shut.
But at the exact moment the lid closed, a voice came clearly through the gaps in the bamboo—dry and hoarse, like sandpaper scraping glass, slow, deliberate, word by word:
"...Yesterday's buns... I haven't eaten them yet..."
Chen Jianguo's sweat soaked through his shirt. He stood frozen by the stove, his hand still pressing on the lid. He could feel something pushing gently against it from below—once, then again, like a living thing slowly turning over inside.
He yanked his hand back.
The kitchen went quiet again. The fluorescent light hummed. From outside the alley, the soft swish of a street sweeper starting his morning rounds. Everything was perfectly normal. Only the basket on the stove, lid closed, still emitted a thin wisp of white steam.
Chen Jianguo stared at it for three full minutes. In those three minutes, the basket made no more sounds, the lid didn't move again. Only the steam continued, thinner now, but never stopping.
He took a deep breath, reached for the lid. His fingers shook as they touched the bamboo. He gritted his teeth and lifted it sharply.
Empty.
The steamer was completely clean—not a crumb left. Only a faint mist rose from the cloth liner, swirling, then dissipating quickly.
Nothing on the stove.
The face was gone.
Chen Jianguo picked up the steamer, flipped it over to check the bottom. Empty. He squatted to look under the stove. Empty. He spun in circles in the middle of the kitchen—mixing bowl, steamer, spice rack, bucket of chopsticks—everything in its place.
The early morning kitchen was quiet. Only his own breathing and heartbeat.
He leaned against the cutting board for a long time. Dawn broke, birds started chirping outside. Slowly, mechanically, he began to knead dough, roll it out, chop filling, wrap buns.
Every movement felt like looking through frosted glass. His hands moved, but his mind kept replaying that face in the fog, that voice.
"...Yesterday's buns... I haven't eaten them yet..."
At eight o'clock, the first basket was ready. Steam pushed the lid open. Chen Jianguo turned down the fire, waiting. Old Zhao from the fried dough stand next door lifted the curtain to borrow soy sauce, glanced at the steaming basket on the stove, and asked casually: "Hey, first basket's done? Not bringing it out?"
Chen Jianguo didn't look back, kept staring at the basket. "Letting it cool."
"Cool? Serve it while it's hot." Old Zhao took the soy sauce bottle and started to leave.
"First basket," Chen Jianguo said. "Wait for the steam to dissipate."
Old Zhao paused, looked at him, then said nothing and left through the curtain. Chen Jianguo was alone in the kitchen, staring at the basket.
White steam seeped from the lid, rising slowly, thinning, like a veil. He remembered his father's expression when he'd said those words.
"They've been traveling all night. They're hungry."
He watched the steam fade, dissolve into the kitchen air. No face. Nothing. Just ordinary water vapor.
But he knew—from the moment he'd sold that basket yesterday, something had changed.
The steam was gone. Chen Jianguo carried the basket out to the counter, lifted the lid. The plump white buns steamed. He used tongs to take one, set it on a plate, poured a dish of vinegar, and brought it back to the kitchen, placing it on the reserved spot on the stove.
"Yesterday's... sorry." He spoke into the air, voice hoarse.
The kitchen was silent. The vinegar in the dish rippled slightly, as if something had touched it.
Chen Jianguo turned and went out. That day, he sold eight baskets. The remaining two—one went to Old Zhao next door, one he took home to Li Hongmei. She asked why he closed early. He said he was tired, wanted to rest.
He didn't tell her about the face. Didn't mention the first basket. He told himself he must have been sleep-deprived, seeing things. But that night, lying in bed, that hoarse voice kept echoing in his ears: "...haven't eaten yet..."
In the middle of the night, he got up to use the bathroom. Passing the living room, he saw the leftover food on the table, covered with a mesh cover. Something compelled him to walk over, lift the cover. The vinegar dish from yesterday was still there—but floating on the vinegar was a thin layer of oil, like someone had stirred it with chopsticks.
The next day, he got up at four as usual. Before pushing open the shop door, he stood outside for half a minute. His hands shook so badly he could barely align the key with the lock.
The shutter creaked open.
The kitchen was quiet. On the stove, the vinegar dish from yesterday was still in its place. The oil layer on top had dried, forming a white film. No new steamer. No steam. Nothing.
He let out a breath.
He opened as usual. First basket came out, lid lifted, placed on the stove to wait for steam to dissipate. When the fog rose, he still stepped back involuntarily.
But this time there was nothing in the mist. It cleared cleanly, smoothly. He carried the buns out and started the day's business.
Everything seemed to return to normal.
For three days straight, nothing happened. No mysterious steamers appeared on the stove, no faces formed in the fog, no hoarse voice.
Chen Jianguo gradually relaxed. Told himself it had just been exhaustion and that weird fake note—his own mind playing tricks.
He started joking with Li Hongmei again, bantering with Old Zhao when he came to borrow things. Only one thing changed—he stuck to that rule like glue: the first basket, always wait for steam to dissipate before selling.
If customers pressed, he'd smile and say: "Just a little longer, almost ready." If they got pushy, he'd give them a free plate of pickles. First basket didn't sell, period.
Until the fifth day.
He opened at four as usual, kneaded dough, mixed filling, steamed the first basket. Fifteen minutes—turned off the fire, lifted the lid. A cloud of steam erupted. He stepped back, wiping the board with a rag, waiting for the fog to clear.
The steam thinned slowly.
But this time, it didn't dissipate completely.
After reaching a certain density, it stopped. Just hovered above the stove, refusing to disperse—like a tiny, condensed cloud. Chen Jianguo's hand paused on the board. He looked up.
Shapes began to form in the mist again.
Clearer than before. Eyebrows, eyes, nose, lips—a complete human face floating in the white vapor, grayish, like an underexposed black-and-white photo. It had its eyes closed, lips slightly parted. A hint of expression this time—as if it was smelling something.
Chen Jianguo held his breath, didn't move a muscle.
The face slowly opened its eyes.
No whites, no pupils—just two black, empty sockets. But Chen Jianguo could feel it "looking." It "looked" at the basket of buns on the stove, then "looked" at Chen Jianguo.
The kitchen temperature seemed to drop several degrees. Goosebumps broke out on Chen Jianguo's arms.
The mouth moved.
That same hoarse, dry, slow voice seeped from the mist—like iron filings ground on a wheel:
"...Still... hot..."
Chen Jianguo made a guttural sound. He wanted to run, but his legs wouldn't obey.
The face moved closer. Fog drifted forward with it, almost touching the tip of his nose. From within that mist, he smelled a strange scent—nothing he'd ever encountered before.
Not rot, not stench. Just... unfamiliar. Like walking into an old house you've never entered, hit with that dusty, woody smell that doesn't belong to you.
"...Ate your buns..." the voice said, "...got to give you... something..."
The fog suddenly contracted, like being sucked inward. In the blink of an eye, all the white vapor collapsed into a small ball, then shot straight into the basket of buns on the stove.
The steamer trembled slightly.
Then silence.
Chen Jianguo's heart thundered in his ears. He stared at the basket, hand gripping the edge of the board, knuckles white. After what felt like minutes—maybe one, maybe ten—he heard voices from the alley outside. The sky turned from inky blue to dark gray.
He slowly moved closer, lifted the lid.
A wave of hot air hit him. Normal, steaming-bun hot air—smelling of wheat and meat. Eight buns sat neatly in the steamer, white and plump, exactly like every other basket he'd ever made.
But on top of the uppermost bun, a small red square was pressed down.
Chen Jianguo tremblingly picked it up, unfolded it.
A hundred-yuan note. Brand new, bright red. Same texture as the one from five days ago—cold, sticky, like ghost money.
On the back, scrawled in black pen:
"Sell me again."
Chen Jianguo clutched the note, standing in the kitchen at four-something in the morning. The buns steamed on the stove, the sky slowly lightening outside. He heard Old Zhao next door starting his stove, the milkman's bicycle jingling past the alley entrance.
He didn't know who that face was, where it came from, what it wanted.
He only knew one thing: that basket of buns shouldn't have been sold.
But the money was already sweating in his palm.
He turned, walked to the other side of the stove, lifted the lid on a fresh basket of buns, waited for the steam to clear. Then he brought the vinegar dish back, placed it on the back spot of the stove, and pressed the note under it.
"Yours... keep it yourself." He spoke into the air, voice dry as sandpaper. "Don't come back."
No response from the stove. The note lay quietly under the vinegar dish, red and glaring.
He didn't speak to anyone all day. Felt like there were eyes watching him in the kitchen. Not hostile staring—just... presence. Like every time you turn around, someone's standing half a meter behind you, not approaching, not leaving.
That night when he closed up, the money under the vinegar dish was gone. The dish was empty too, only a few dried oil spots stuck to the bottom.
He didn't know what that meant.
But he knew this wasn't over.
Because the fog had said: "...Ate your buns... got to give you... something..."
It had given twice already.
As Chen Jianguo locked the door, he heard a very faint sound from the kitchen behind him—like water coming to a boil, gurgling softly. He didn't look back. Pulled down the shutter, locked it, and walked quickly into the alley's darkness.
In the days that followed, Chen Jianguo changed his routine.
When the first basket came out, he didn't just wait for steam to dissipate. He'd pour a little soy sauce into a small bowl by the stove, add a few scallions, set down a pair of clean chopsticks. After the steam cleared, he'd say to the stove: "Enjoy."
Then carry the remaining buns out to sell.
Business went on as usual. Li Hongmei asked why he kept setting dishes on the stove. He said: "Worshipping the kitchen god."
She laughed at his superstition. He didn't explain.
The face never appeared again. No more mysterious items in the steamer. Every morning when he pushed open the shop door, the kitchen was quiet, the stove clean—no white vapor, no sounds.
But Chen Jianguo knew it was still there.
Sometimes when he bent over mixing filling, his peripheral vision would catch the air above the stove twist slightly, like something invisible had drifted past.
Sometimes when he opened at dawn, he'd smell a faint scent in the kitchen—nothing like his flour or meat filling. Couldn't identify it. It would fade after a moment.
What unsettled him most: the soy sauce and scallions in that little dish—every morning when he arrived, they were completely gone. Not a drop of oil left on the bottom. Like someone had come during the night, eaten it all, and licked the bowl clean.
He never told anyone about this. Not even Li Hongmei. Figured no one would believe him—might even think he was crazy. So he kept offering the daily tribute, kept waiting for steam to clear, kept saying "Enjoy" to empty air.
Days passed like this—nervous, but peaceful enough.
Until two weeks later, one early morning.
He woke up half an hour earlier than usual, couldn't fall back asleep, so he went to the shop early. The sky was pitch black, the alley eerily quiet—not even a cat meow. He took out his keys, pushed up the shutter. It creaked loudly.
He went inside, didn't turn on the light, groped his way toward the kitchen. Planned to boil water first, then turn on the lights to knead dough.
His hand just touched the kitchen doorframe when he stopped.
There was light in the kitchen. Not the harsh white of the fluorescent tube. A warm, yellow glow—like an old kerosene lamp. It came from the stove direction, bathing the entire kitchen in a strange, peaceful warmth.
Chen Jianguo held his breath, peeked around the door.
On the stove, the soy sauce and scallion dish was still there. Next to it sat the daily tribute basket, bamboo lid closed tight, thin white steam curling out from the cracks. The steam rose halfway, then stopped.
Then began to gather.
He saw the face again. Complete, clear, floating in that white vapor. Thick black eyebrows, eyes slightly closed, even a faint smile at the corner of its mouth.
The face wasn't gray anymore. It had color now—skin even showing a faint rosy hue, like blood was flowing through it.
It opened its eyes. This time, those eyes weren't empty black sockets. Deep in the pupils, a tiny light flickered—like a candle flame, small, but definitely burning.
It looked at him.
Chen Jianguo stood at the kitchen door, legs heavy as lead. He wanted to retreat, to run—but a strange intuition told him: this time, there was no malice.
The mouth opened. The voice was still hoarse, dry, but much clearer than before—even a hint of intonation:
"...You... good..."
Chen Jianguo finally found his voice. He heard himself ask, trembling like a leaf in autumn wind: "Who... who are you?"
The face paused. The mist rippled slightly. Then it said:
"...Sold buns... "
"...I used to... be here... selling buns..."
Chen Jianguo's mind exploded. He remembered his father's words: "They've been traveling all night. They're hungry." Remembered how his father had looked—reverent yet dismissive—every time he lifted the first basket lid. Remembered the vague instruction when the shop was passed down:
"First basket... for them."
He'd never known who "they" were.
The face continued, voice intermittent—like a radio with bad reception, every word crackling:
"...That year... twelfth lunar month... I got sick... didn't steam the first basket..."
"...They waited all night... didn't get any..."
"...Later... wouldn't let me sell anymore..."
The face in the mist convulsed, as if enduring pain. That tiny candle flame in its eyes flickered.
"...They drove me away... but I... still wanted to sell buns..."
"...Your buns... good..."
"...So... I help you..."
The face finished speaking. The fog suddenly contracted, collapsing like a vacuum. In the blink of an eye, it shrank back into the steamer. The bamboo lid jumped slightly, then settled. The kerosene-lamp light vanished. The kitchen plunged back into darkness.
Chen Jianguo flipped the light switch. The fluorescent flickered, then lit up. Everything normal. The basket on the stove, the soy sauce and scallion dish still there, steam completely dissipated.
He walked over slowly, lifted the lid.
The buns were white and plump as usual. But in the pleats of the top bun, something was stuck.
He picked it out—a corner of an old, yellowed photograph, like it had been burned, edges charred and curled. Only a small fragment remained, showing what looked like a shopfront, with a plaque hanging above the door. Four characters written on it—the middle two burned away, leaving only "___记包子" (___-ji Buns, "ji" being a traditional Chinese shop brand suffix).
Chen Jianguo flipped the photo over. Several lines were written in ink, smudged but legible:
"Eighth day of twelfth lunar month. Did not steam first basket. Closed shop that day. Next day at Mao hour (5–7 AM), found dead. Kitchen god took shop, passed to successor. Every midnight, offer first basket. Do not neglect."
The date was over thirty years earlier than when his father had taken over the shop.
Chen Jianguo held the charred photo corner, standing in the early morning kitchen. The basket of buns on the stove grew cold. He remembered—two weeks ago, flipping the calendar... it had been the eighth day of the twelfth lunar month.
He'd sold the first basket that day.
To that young man rushing for the high-speed train.
What had happened to that young man?
He pulled out his phone, searched local news from two weeks ago for anything about the high-speed rail station. His fingers shook as he scrolled. A small news item popped up:
"REPORT: A man collapsed suddenly while waiting at the high-speed rail station platform, fell into a coma, and died after being taken to hospital. It is reported the man had eaten breakfast from a street vendor prior to the incident. Cause of death pending investigation."
No photo, no name—just a brief time and location. Chen Jianguo stared at the words, recognizing that station. It was exactly where the young man had been heading when he bought those buns.
His phone slipped from his hand, hitting the cutting board with a dull *thud*.
The basket of buns on the stove was completely cold. A thin oil film had formed on the surface of the soy sauce in the dish.
Outside, the sky wasn't light yet. From deep in the alley came a faint rooster's crow.
Chen Jianguo slowly bent down, picked up his phone. He looked at the stove, then at the charred photo corner in his hand.
Then he lifted the steamer lid, added fresh water, and lit the fire.
Water began to boil. He walked to the board, scooped flour, added water, and started kneading dough.
Movements mechanical, yet calm.
He decided tomorrow morning, he'd change the soy sauce dish to a fresh one. Maybe add a few more scallions.
After all, it had said it would help him.
He wasn't quite sure yet if this "help" meant helping him keep the shop... or helping him become the next "them."
But dawn was breaking. It was time for the first basket of buns to start steaming.