On a Friday evening in early autumn, Wei came home from work, put his hand in his coat pocket, and found nothing. He tried the other pocket, then his bag, then every pocket again, more slowly the second time. The keys were gone.
He stood outside his own door for a while, feeling silly. Behind him the hall was quiet. Somewhere below, a television was playing a football match, and the sound of the crowd rose and fell like weather. He had lived in this building for three years and had never once spoken to a neighbor.
The obvious plan was to call his sister, who kept a spare key. He took out his phone. The battery showed four percent, and while he was still choosing what to write, the screen went black. He laughed out loud, a short unhappy laugh, and put the dead phone back in his bag.
It had been a long week. His boss had changed the design of a report three times, the last change arriving at six o'clock on Friday, and Wei had stayed late to finish it. He had eaten nothing since lunch. Now he was locked out, without a phone, in a cold hall, and the only thing he could think about was the bowl of noodles he was not going to eat.
The door across from his opened. An old woman looked out, holding a cat against her shoulder. She studied him for a moment.
"You live here," she said. It was not a question.
"Number nine. I've lost my keys."
She nodded, as though people lost keys outside her door every day, and stepped back to let him in. Her flat smelled of garlic and hot oil. She pointed at a chair, filled a cup with tea, and set it in front of him without asking whether he wanted any. Then she picked up her own phone, an old one with large buttons, and handed it over.
His sister did not answer. He left a message and gave the phone back.
"She will call," the old woman said. "Sit. Eat something."
He wanted to say he was fine, that he would wait in the hall, that he had already taken too much of her evening. Instead he sat, because he was tired, and because the kitchen was warm. She put a plate of noodles in front of him with a soft egg on top and a few green leaves, and she did not watch him eat, which he was grateful for.
They talked a little. Her husband had died four years ago. Her son lived in another province and called on Sundays. She had been a teacher of maths for thirty-one years and still marked the days of the month the way she had once checked names on a class list.
At half past nine his sister arrived with the spare key, apologized twice, and went home. Wei opened his own door at last, stood in his dark flat, and realized he had not asked the old woman her name.
The next morning he knocked. When she opened the door he said, "I'm Wei, from number nine. I came to say thank you properly."
She told him her name was Mrs Guo, and asked whether he had eaten breakfast.