A five-minute error
The morning light in the studio always has a caramel tint.
When Ah Yu pushed open the door in the 7:55 AM sunlight, Zhong Hua was already standing in front of the coffee machine. The white steam from the steam pipe, carrying the aroma of roasted coffee beans, condensed into a thin layer of vapor on the glass cover of the old watch on his wrist.
"Good morning." Ah Yu tossed his camera bag onto the table, his gaze sweeping over the clock face—the hour hand was stuck at 8:05. He bent down, pretending to tie his shoelaces, his fingertips rubbing against the seam of his trousers; the red marks from adjusting the clock yesterday, where the crown had been pressed against the fabric, were still burning.
Zhong Hua turned around, holding two lattes. The white porcelain cup spun half a circle in his palm, the handle stopping precisely at Ah Yu's easy angle. "We're going to photograph an old bookstore today. Are the batteries charged?"
"It was full last night." Ah Yu took the coffee, the warmth of the cup creeping up his fingertips. He lowered his head and took a sip, his eyes glancing at Zhong Hua checking his watch. His Adam's apple bobbed, but he said nothing.
This kind of morning has been going on for three weeks.
The first time I noticed my watch was slow was on the day we went to the outskirts of the city to photograph the sunrise. While Ah Yu was calibrating the tripod with her phone, Zhong Hua's watch hands had just crossed six o'clock. "Your watch needs a battery change," he said casually, but then he noticed Zhong Hua pull his sleeve down, covering the worn-out watch strap.
From that day on, Ah Yu had a secret. Every day, when Zhong Hua stood in front of the coffee machine, his back to him as he frothed the milk, Ah Yu would sneak over, quickly pinch the crown, and turn it clockwise five times. The "click" of the metal gears meshing mingled with the machine's hum, like a hidden piece of candy.
On the seventh day, when Lin Wanqing came in carrying the painting tube, she happened to see Ah Yu's finger resting on the watch face. "What kind of secret code are you two playing?" she asked with a raised eyebrow and a smile, tapping a dot on the paper with her pen. "Zhong Hua's watch is almost ten minutes slow, and you didn't even notice?"
Ah Yu jerked her hand back as if burned. Zhong Hua, who was arranging freshly toasted bread slices on a plate, glanced back at the wall clock upon hearing this and said slowly, "It's probably gotten damp."
Lin Wanqing clearly didn't believe her. She swaggered over to Ah Yu, munching on her toast, and whispered, "When he was fixing your lens last week, he stared at the parts for three hours straight without losing focus. How could he not notice the watch was running slow?"
Ah Yu's heart suddenly skipped a beat. He stared at Zhong Hua's back as the man loosened the lid of the jam jar by half a turn before handing it over—a habit he'd had since college, because he always complained that the glass lids were too slippery.
That afternoon, while photographing the old bookstore, sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, casting dappled patterns of light on Zhong Hua's watch strap. Ah Yu was focusing her camera when suddenly a white cat darted into the frame, leaping down from the old bookshelves, its dust swirling in the beam of light.
"Watch out!" Zhong Hua reached out and caught the camera that was almost knocked over by the cat. His hand brushed against the lens cap, leaving a light gray mark. He bent down and blew on the mark. The glass cover of the watch reflected the light, and Ah Yu then noticed that there was a tiny crack on the inside of the dial, like a seam hidden in time.
"This watch needs to be replaced," Ah Yu suddenly said.
Zhong Hua paused, his fingertips tracing the crack: "Use it again."
On her way home from work in the evening, Ah Yu passed by a watch shop and went in to ask about the strap for the same model of watch. The salesperson flipped through the catalog for a while, then pointed to small print at the bottom of the page and said that this model had been discontinued for a long time. "But we can order a leather one," the salesperson said, pulling out a sample booklet. "Want it to be the same as the original?"
The brown leather on the sample booklet gleamed with a brand-new sheen, but Ah Yu recalled the patterns on Zhong Hua's watch strap—the light brown marks left from countless times she held the developer bottle in the darkroom, soaked in the chemicals; the rough edges worn from carrying his tripod in college, from the metal buckle; and the fine marks left by the sand and gravel swept by the lake wind last year by Qinghai Lake.
"No need." He shook his head and walked out of the shop. The evening breeze, carrying fallen leaves, brushed against his face, feeling a little chilly.
When Ah Yu returned to the studio, Zhong Hua was developing photos in the darkroom. A red light shone through the frosted glass, casting a warm orange glow on the floor. Ah Yu pushed open the door and saw Zhong Hua hanging the developed photos on the drying line. They were photos taken last week of the eaves of the street corner bakery, with raindrops glistening in the lamplight.
"This photo is blurry." Zhong Hua's voice sounded particularly low in the red light. He reached out to pick up the photo, and the watch strap of his wristwatch brushed against the metal clothesline, making a soft clinking sound.
Ah Yu walked over and noticed a blurry shadow in the corner of the photo—the silhouette of Zhong Hua, half his body submerged in the rain, as he draped his coat over his shoulders. "It's not blurry," he said softly, his fingertips touching the water stains at the edge of the photo. "It's perfect."
Zhong Hua turned his head, the red light flickering in his pupils. They were very close; Ah Yu could see the tiny silver halide particles clinging to his eyelashes, like a layer of stars. "Your camera needs a new shutter speed," Zhong Hua suddenly said. "Yesterday, when shooting against the light, it was delayed by 0.3 seconds."
Ah Yu was stunned. Details that he himself hadn't even noticed, Zhong Hua remembered more clearly than anyone else. Just like when he always said in college that you had to wait for the rain to stop to photograph lotus flowers, Zhong Hua stood in the pouring rain for two hours, just to wait for the moment when raindrops fell on the lotus leaves.
The smell of medicine in the darkroom suddenly became very strong, mixed with the faint scent of coffee on Zhong Hua, brewing a bittersweet warmth in her nostrils. Ah Yu turned her face away to look at the wall clock; the hour hand had already pointed to 9:30.
"I'll get my camera repaired tomorrow," he said.
"I'll go with you," Zhong Hua's voice followed immediately, carrying an unquestionable certainty.
The next morning, Ah Yu was standing by the coffee machine again. Zhong Hua was bending down to pick up a sugar packet that had fallen to the ground, and on his exposed wrist, the dial was stopped at 8:02. Sunlight filtered in through the gaps in the blinds, cutting out alternating stripes of light and shadow on the watch strap.
Ah Yu took a deep breath and reached out to twist the watch crown. Her fingertips had just touched the cold metal when a warm hand pressed them down.
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