Chapter 10
不要走
Do Not Go
上午十点。陈露来了。
她带着作文本来——这已经是第三周了，每周六上午，她都在茶馆里批作文。
今天她批到一篇《我家的味道》。
学生写：妈妈做的红烧肉、爷爷泡的茶、奶奶缝的衣角。
陈露在旁边批了六个字：
「陈老师也有妈妈。」
然后划掉了。
苏茉倒茶的时候，从茶汤的反光里看到她划掉的动作。
她多倒了一杯。
十一点半。文姐抱着一个巨大的洗衣袋推门进来。
不是来喝茶的。
「你这布用了多久了，都有茶垢了，」她把洗衣袋放在地上。「我一个干洗店的，看不了这个。」
苏茉说谢谢。
「我不是在帮你——我是在维护专业形象。」
她走的时候顺手擦了门口的门框。
下午一点。小杨推门进来。
「茉姐，抹茶拿铁还有吗？」她把手机放在吧台上：「我写完了第二章！」
苏茉给她做了一杯抹茶拿铁——抹茶粉加牛奶，不加糖。小杨每次都点这个，说「甜的喝不出抹茶味」。
小杨接过杯子，喝了一口，然后跑出去继续送件。
苏茉翻开看——
第二章结尾写的是：「主角在茶馆里遇到了一个人。那个人不说话，就坐在角落里。主角觉得他像一张没有洗出来的照片。」
苏茉抬头看了看许念常坐的位子——今天他不来。
但小杨没见过他几次。
她是怎么写出这个比喻的。
下午两点半。
一个新客人进来——四十多岁的男人，看了一眼菜单，皱眉：「这么贵，对面新店多便宜。」
苏茉还没来得及说话。
角落里传来一个声音：
「那你过去喝。」
是沈佳音。
她坐在最角落，缩在菜单后面说出来的——声音很低，但整个店都听见了。
说完她的手把菜单捏紧了。
男人走了。
苏茉走到角落，给沈佳音加了一壶桂花乌龙——没算钱。
沈佳音没有抬头。
但苏茉听到她说了一句极轻的「谢谢」——
客服语调。
标准的「您好请问有什么可以帮您」的节奏。
不是用她自己的声音说的。
但你替它说了。
苏茉后来才知道——沈佳音晚上在出租屋里对着二手麦克风，给动画和游戏片段配音。B站账号「佳音FM」，三万粉丝。白天用客服语调说话，晚上用几十种声音说话。但哪一种声音是她自己的，她还在找。
下午四点。赵秀兰最后一个来。
她帮邻居跑了一上午社保局，脚走痛了。
苏茉后来才知道——赵秀兰年轻时爱漂亮。烫过最时髦的卷发，穿过那一辈人只有过年才穿的布拉吉。六十六年出生，快六十了。退休前做了二十年居委会主任，这条街的每一条下水道、每一个低保户，她都经手过。退休证上写着「赵秀兰」三个字，但所有人都叫她「赵奶奶」。
苏茉给她泡了一壶径山茶。
赵秀兰喝了一口：
「今天这壶和上次不太一样——冷得快。」
苏茉说：「因为秋天了。」
「不是因为秋天，」赵秀兰说。「是因为茶在等你。」
苏茉的手指停在杯沿上。
「茶等了你六年，」赵秀兰继续说。「现在是你等它了。」
下午五点。许念来了——晚了。
他坐在窗边，喝完茶，从相机包里抽出一张打印好的照片。
放在吧台上。
未名茶馆。下午五点的侧光。从街对面取景——角度极低，门框正好框住了门内。
门内坐着一个人。
模糊的。
但可以看出是苏茉在倒茶。
苏茉拿起照片，看了很久。
「我从来没见过茶馆这个角度。」
许念说：「我也从来没见过。」
他收起相机，走了。
他说「我也从来没见过」的时候——
他看的是照片里的人。
晚上八点。苏茉把许念的照片钉在吧台后面。
她看着照片里的自己——一个泡茶的人。在门框里。很模糊。
但她的轮廓是清楚的。在那扇门里。被人框住了。
三十六年来第一次——不是大合影里被框进去的路人，是被人专门拍的。
她把照片拿下来，翻过来——
背面有日期：今天。
许念今天下午洗的。
照片还温着。
第10章 · 完
Ten in the morning. Chen Lu arrived.
She brought a stack of student essays — this was the third week now, every Saturday morning, she graded papers in the tea house.
Today she reached one titled "The Taste of My Home."
The student wrote: the braised pork her mother made, the tea her grandfather brewed, the hem her grandmother stitched.
Beside it Chen Lu wrote six words:
"Teacher Chen has a mother too."
Then crossed it out.
Su Mo was pouring tea. In the reflection on the surface, she saw the motion of Chen Lu crossing it out.
She poured an extra cup.
Eleven-thirty. Sister Wen pushed through the door carrying an enormous laundry bag.
Not to drink tea.
"These cloths of yours — how long have you been using them? They are caked with tea stains." She set the bag on the floor. "I run a dry-cleaning shop. I cannot look at this."
Su Mo said thank you.
"I am not helping you — I am maintaining professional dignity."
On her way out she wiped the doorframe by the entrance.
One in the afternoon. Xiao Yang pushed through the door.
"Sister Mo, do you still have matcha lattes?" She set her phone on the counter. "I finished Chapter Two!"
Su Mo made her a matcha latte — matcha powder with milk, no sugar. Xiao Yang ordered this every time, said "Sweet hides the matcha."
Xiao Yang took the cup, drank a mouthful, then rushed out to keep delivering.
Su Mo opened the phone and read —
The end of Chapter Two read: "The protagonist met someone in the tea house. That person did not speak, just sat in the corner. The protagonist thought he looked like a photograph that had never been developed."
Su Mo looked up at the seat where Xu Nian usually sat — he was not coming today.
But Xiao Yang had only seen him a handful of times.
How did she write that metaphor.
Two-thirty in the afternoon.
A new customer walked in — a man in his forties. He glanced at the menu, frowned. "So expensive. The new place across the street is much cheaper."
Su Mo had not yet opened her mouth.
A voice came from the corner:
"Then go over there."
It was Shen Jiayin.
She sat in the farthest corner, half-hidden behind the menu when she said it — very low, but the whole shop heard.
After she said it, her hand tightened on the menu.
The man left.
Su Mo walked to the corner and poured Shen Jiayin a pot of osmanthus oolong — did not charge her.
Shen Jiayin did not look up.
But Su Mo heard her say, very softly, "Thank you" —
Customer-service voice.
The standard rhythm of "Hello, how may I help you."
Not spoken in her own voice.
But you said it for her.
Su Mo found out later — Shen Jiayin spent her evenings in her rented room, talking into a secondhand microphone, dubbing animations and game clips. Her Bilibili account, "Jiayin FM," had thirty thousand followers. By day she spoke in a customer-service voice; by night she spoke in dozens of voices. Which one was her own, she was still searching for.
Four in the afternoon. Zhao Xiulan arrived last.
She had spent the morning at the social security office running errands for a neighbor, and her feet ached from walking.
Su Mo found out later — Zhao Xiulan had loved looking good when she was young. She had permed the most fashionable curls, worn the kind of dress her generation only wore on New Year's. Born in 1966, nearly sixty now. Before retiring she had served twenty years as the neighborhood committee director — every drainage pipe on this street, every household on minimum subsistence, she had handled them all. Her retirement certificate read "Zhao Xiulan," but everyone called her "Grandma Zhao."
Su Mo brewed her a pot of Jingshan tea.
Zhao Xiulan took a sip:
"This pot is a little different from last time — it cools fast."
Su Mo said, "Because it is autumn."
"It is not because of autumn," Zhao Xiulan said. "It is because the tea is waiting for you."
Su Mo's fingers stopped on the rim of the cup.
"The tea waited for you six years," Zhao Xiulan went on. "Now it is your turn to wait for it."
Five in the afternoon. Xu Nian arrived — late.
He sat by the window, finished his tea, then pulled a printed photograph from his camera bag.
Set it on the counter.
The Unnamed Tea House. Five o'clock sidelight. Shot from across the street — the angle extremely low, the doorframe framing exactly what was inside the doorway.
Inside the doorway sat a person.
Blurry.
But you could tell it was Su Mo pouring tea.
Su Mo picked up the photo, looked at it for a long time.
"I have never seen the tea house from this angle."
Xu Nian said, "I have never seen it either."
He packed up his camera, and left.
When he said "I have never seen it either" —
He was looking at the person in the photo.
Eight in the evening. Su Mo pinned Xu Nian's photo behind the counter.
She looked at herself in the photograph — a person brewing tea. Inside the doorframe. Very blurry.
But her outline was clear. Inside that door. Framed by someone.
For the first time in thirty-six years — not a face lost in a group photo, but someone specifically photographed.
She took the photo down, turned it over —
On the back, a date: today.
Xu Nian had printed it this afternoon.
The photo was still warm.
Chapter 10 · End
To be continued — Chapter 11: A Former Colleague Knocks