redinkmag

By Melinda Jiang, ’24

Serious, severe, and fast-paced, Nyss was always on the move. She needed to be.
The heel of her boots clicked against the concrete in perfect rhythm. Click, clack, click, clack.
There was no stopping, no going back, and no time for cowardice or second-guessing.
The world behind only contained jail cells and dead ends. Once the first few pieces of fine jewels had entered her pockets all those years ago, it was already game over.
So she strutted forward–the only direction she could go.
Nyss was always on the move until the clicking of her heels came to a halt.
On that foggy gray October day, a street stand stood alone on the side of the San Francisco bridge.
It was one of those “shop-on-wheels” types of carts. It was small, wooden, and worn, simple yet possessed a captivating atmosphere. The woman walked closer, trying to gain a better view of the mysterious lone cart through the thick and uncomfortable fog.
A variety of paper goods decorated the cart. Behind the counter stood a tiny, wrinkly lady who stuck her head out at the sight of a customer.
“Hello, dear.” The lady said, giving Nyss a gentle smile.
Reluctantly, Nyss replied with a quiet “hello.” It struck her with slight annoyance, having not prepared to see anyone that day, let alone converse.
“Have a look around and let me know if you see anything you like.”
That was the last of their conversation because a messy shelf of books had caught her eye. The bookshelves were built into the cart and looked like they hadn’t been touched in years. The books were in a similar state, each coated in a thick layer of dust and gray. Some books were stacked on their side, some sitting upright.
All were like this except for one that sat neatly and flat on the shelf. It looked far newer than the others. Nyss felt its leather cover. The sturdy book had two dark blue flowers embroidered onto the front cover.
She opened the book and began to read the misshaped letters:

“Dear Diary,
Today, we made cookies together. It was the best day ever. I’ve never felt happier. I hope we stay this way forever.”

A photo accompanied the entry featuring three people, each with bright, crescent-eyed smiles.
Nyss leafed through the rest of the pages and realized the book was already half-filled with entries–rich and personal memories. She scanned the other books piled on the shelf and discovered that they were all in a similar state. Half written in, worn, damaged.
To buy one and use it for her own mischievous purposes felt too cruel. So she moved on.
A laminated paper sign hung above the next section of the cart. The black typed letters read, “Bring selected notes bonded with a binder clip.”
The sign had three bold arrows that pointed to a narrow shelf opening. Nyss found that there was only one binder clip remaining. She grabbed it and fidgeted with the smooth metal.
Notepads filled this next section of the cart. Just like the journals, they were worn and half-used. There were normal square ones in every color of the rainbow, bear-shaped, flower-shaped, triangular, but nothing of interest. So she placed the binder clip back under the sign for the next person to find.
Miniature booklets filled with stamps hung from the farthest corner of the stand like wind chimes. Above, another laminated sign had “50% off!!” written in bold red font.
Nyss felt like she was back in school as she tried to work the math problem out in her head. If stamps were usually 50¢, but they were 50% off. How much would that be?
A rip-off for the seller was the answer that she snarkily came to.
However, those stamps had awoken something long-forgotten.
Ten years ago, Nyss, in her tweens, was still living at home. She lay on the living room couch, feet in the air, with a book of stamps open. They were her father’s collection.
Nyss had always asked to see his stamp collection that lived in sizeable dark leather albums. She flipped through the plastic pages and admired the plethora of stamps covering each page–back and font–in neat, organized rows. Each stamp was a tiny and intricate piece of art.
In the eighth grade, her father had gifted her one of his treasured stamps, which she kept in her phone case.
Now, Nyss didn’t even have a phone–she couldn’t have one. It would make pinpointing her location too easy. No phone, no phone case, and nowhere to keep the precious stamp, if she even knew where it had gone after all the years.
Not knowing how long she had spaced out, Nyss checked her pocket watch.
Almost 1 o’clock in the afternoon. She silently cursed. Her headstart wouldn’t be much of a headstart very soon.
Yet, something in her desperately craved for a stamp. Even if she would likely lose it in her next dangerous endeavor. Even if it would only serve as a childish keepsake.
Adrenaline rushed, building and building, as she scanned the booklets of stamps for her favorite to buy, taking every last second she could afford.
Dragged onwards by her feet alone, Nyss treaded away from the stand. Empty-handed. Serious and severe, but her pace slowed.