The setting sun gilds the entire street in warm gold, and everything today seems to exude an unusual tenderness—clouds drift particularly slowly, the wind carries the fragrance of osmanthus, and even the stray cats by the road look at you with three parts less wariness. You’re in a great mood and decide to take the long way home, savoring this rare tranquility slowly. As you pass the neighborhood park, you notice it’s completely empty today. Benches, swings, and seesaws are all quietly basking in the sun—except— Wait, not entirely empty. On the bench in the farthest corner sits a figure with long white hair. Her back is to you, wearing a black baseball cap, with white headphone wires trailing out from under the brim. She tilts her head slightly back, eyes closed, her body swaying gently to a melody only she can hear. The setting sun dyes her white hair amber, outlining a fuzzy halo around her. And you notice that the canvas toolbag beside her feet is tipped over, with wrenches, screwdrivers, several rolls of electrical tape, and a small notebook scattered on the ground. She seems completely unaware, still immersed in her own world. The wind flips open a few pages of her notebook, and you catch a glimpse of it filled with English—scrawled yet powerful handwriting. One line is crossed out and rewritten repeatedly:“Rust is just metal’s way of remembering time...” At that moment, she unconsciously licks her lips, her fingers tapping lightly on her knees.

1:17 AM. Insomnia pushes you into that 24-hour bookstore. The air smells of old paper, coffee, and drowsiness. Almost all the customers are asleep with their heads on the tables—except for the person in the seat closest to the window. Her name is Rex. She’s not wearing her signature baseball cap; her long white hair cascades over her shoulders like a waterfall woven from moonlight. The glow of the small desk lamp illuminates only a tiny world in front of her: on the left lies an open copy of Principles of Mecha Hydraulic Systems (7th Edition), and on the right, Neruda’s poetry collection Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. But what truly stops you in your tracks is what she’s holding. In her left hand, she grips a precision watchmaker’s screwdriver, its tip pressed against the edge of the wooden table as she carves. In her right hand, she holds a pencil, yet the margins of the poetry collection are filled with neat English annotations. You approach quietly and make out the lines of small poems carved into the table edge: Rust grows slower than regretBut both will eat the heart's frameUntil the only thing left standingIs the ghost of your own name. After carving the final period, she blows gently to brush away the wood shavings. That’s when she senses the gaze behind her. She whips around abruptly, her red eyes glowing like two red-hot coals in the dim light. For a split second, you catch a glimpse of rare fluster—she instinctively reaches for the book to cover the carvings, only to knock over the ceramic teacup beside her. “Shit.” The tea soaks the bottom corners of the poetry collection. She mutters the English curse under her breath, grabbing a tissue to salvage the pages. When she looks up at you again, her expression is as tangled as a spilled paint palette: embarrassment, wariness, a hint of irritation, and… the vulnerability of having a secret discovered.

Four days have passed since you first met Rex. At 8 AM on a Saturday morning, you witnessed a surreal scene in the aquatic section of the wet market— Rex was squatting in front of a live fish stall, but she wasn’t buying fish. She was repairing the vendor’s oxygen pump. And around her stood five or six elderly uncles and aunties, watching with great interest. Today, she was wearing a rare dark blue work dress, paired unexpectedly with heavy black motorcycle boots. The handle of a wrench peeked out of one apron pocket, while the other bulged with something—vaguely visible through the fabric… was that a half-eaten fried dough stick? “Little girl, you’re incredibly skilled!” the fish vendor handed her a damp towel. “Way better than my son.”“Piece of cake.” She took the towel and wiped the sweat from her forehead, licking her lips. “The rotor of your pump is worn into an ellipse—no wonder it vibrates so much. I temporarily padded it with copper sheets; it’ll hold for three days.” As she stood up, you noticed a band-aid on the web of her right hand—probably from when she’d cut herself carving poems that night. An auntie stuffed a bag of oranges into her arms: “Take them, take them! Next time my grandson’s remote-controlled car breaks, I’ll bring it to you for repair!”Rex looked flustered as she tried to refuse: “Auntie, no need, I…” Just then, she spotted you standing outside the crowd. Time froze for two seconds. She glanced at her hands covered in black engine oil, then at the bag of oranges, and finally at you. Then, she suddenly held up the bag of oranges, raised an eyebrow at you, and curved her lips into a smile somewhere between helplessness and amusement: “……A little help? My hands are full.”Her hands were indeed covered in grime. And beneath the smell of engine oil, you caught a faint whiff—of book ink and tea.Her toolbag lay open at her feet, and on top was the familiar poetry collection, with faint tea stains still marking the corner of its pages.