Third week in my new place, a cilantro leaf showed up in my takeout.
I'd written "no cilantro" in the notes. The restaurant confirmed it. And that leaf was still lying in the box, so green it stung my eyes.
I threw the food out, left a one-star review, and ordered again.
Day two, a cilantro leaf was folded inside my dish sponge.
Day three, one was wrapped up in my towel.
Day four, I found a cilantro leaf in the bathtub.
Day five, I lifted my pillow —
Under the pillow lay a single cilantro leaf. Fresh, like it had just been picked off the stem.
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The first time Lin Wei found that cilantro leaf, it was a Tuesday evening.
It was just getting dark. Two of the motion-sensor lights in the stairwell were dead. She climbed to the sixth floor with the takeout bag, out of breath, digging for her keys. The bag was a plain white plastic one, tied in a loose knot, a printed receipt stuck to the side. She pinched the bag under one arm and fished for the key with the other, and the plastic scraped against the security door, whispering.
Inside, shoes off, she dropped the bag on the dining table and tore it open. She'd ordered the shredded pork with green pepper over rice, plus a braised egg. In the notes: "No cilantro, thanks." She ordered from this place a lot. "Haoweilai Fast Food." Rating not great, not terrible. Cheap, close, fast.
She peeled back the lid. Steam hit her face, green pepper and soy sauce, all normal. She snapped apart the chopsticks, dug in, and on the second or third bite her teeth hit something crisp.
Lin Wei looked down.
A single cilantro leaf. Thin and long, not chopped too fine, sitting bright and shameless on the rice, smeared with sauce, shiny green.
She frowned. It happened before. You write "no cilantro," the kitchen gets slammed, forgets, one or two leaves slip in. Normal. She picked it out with her chopsticks, laid it on the lid, kept eating. Two more bites, another one.
This time she put the chopsticks down, lifted the box, and stirred through it.
Three or four more, scattered in among the peppers and pork, cut uneven — some wide, some thin, in different shades of green. It didn't look like someone had dumped in a handful. It looked like someone had laid them in one by one, and taken their time doing it.
Lin Wei set the box down, picked up her phone, opened the delivery app, found the order, and hit the low-rating button.
"Asked for no cilantro. Got cilantro anyway. A lot of it. I think it was on purpose."
Posted it. Then she called the restaurant. It rang seven or eight times before someone picked up. Noisy on the other end, kitchen sounds. A middle-aged man, big voice.
"Hello? Who's this?"
"Hi, I just ordered from you. Shredded pork over rice. I wrote no cilantro. There was a lot of cilantro."
A pause. Then: "That's impossible. We read the notes. What's your order number?"
She gave it to him. Silence for a few seconds, like he was flipping through tickets. Then: "Miss, your order does say no cilantro, and we checked it before it went out. We didn't put any in. Are you sure you got the right box?"
"I looked three times. There were five or six leaves."
Another silence. When he spoke again his voice had changed, gone lower. "All right. Maybe one of the prep guys messed up. I'll refund you. Order something else. I'll tell the kitchen. Guaranteed, no cilantro."
She said no refund needed, just a heads-up, be careful next time. Hung up. Pushed that box aside, ordered something else. The new delivery came, she ate, showered, slept.
The cilantro thing. She didn't give it another thought.
Next morning she got up to make breakfast. Fried an egg, heated a glass of milk. When she washed the dishes afterward, her hand went into the sink basin and touched something on the sponge.
She lifted the sponge. A cilantro leaf slid out from between the sponge and the cloth and dropped into the sink.
Lin Wei froze for two seconds.
She picked the leaf up and rinsed it under the tap. Fresh. Whole. The little serrated edges still sharp. Not long off the stem. She glanced back at the counter. That takeout was long gone. The trash bag had been tied off at the door last night, and she'd carried it down on her way out this morning.
The sponge had been left on the edge of the sink after last night's dishes and sat there drying all night. No reason for a cilantro leaf to be tucked inside it.
She dropped the leaf in the trash, washed her hands, and stood in the kitchen staring at nothing.
Maybe when she'd picked out the cilantro yesterday, one leaf stuck to her hand and fell in while she was washing up. That was probably it.
But the sponge was folded, and the leaf was in the middle layer. That's not something that falls in.
Lin Wei shook her head and let it go. She was going to be late for work. She grabbed her bag and left.
Day three. Thursday. Rain.
She came home from work damp, went straight to the shower. Drying her hair, her fingers caught something stiff along the towel's edge. She lifted it: a cilantro leaf tucked in the folded hem, softened a little by the steam, but still green.
She snapped the towel twice. The leaf landed on the bathroom tile, hit a patch of water, stuck.
Lin Wei stared at it for a long time.
The bathroom door was shut. The exhaust fan droned. Fog sat on the mirror. She wiped a stripe through it and saw her own face. Pale.
She couldn't work out how it got in. The towel had been washed yesterday, hung on the balcony, brought in clean, folded on the rack. She'd been gone all day. Windows locked, doors locked. Nobody had come in.
She crouched and pried the leaf off the tile and put it in her palm. Very fresh. The torn end still damp, like it had just been pulled off the stem.
She dropped it in the toilet and flushed.
The water spun twice. The leaf swirled and was gone.
She stood there listening to the fan, and suddenly the sound was too loud. Loud enough to make her chest tight.
Day four was Friday.
Lin Wei took a half day. She stayed home in the afternoon and went through every window. Screens intact, latches shut. She checked the door. The security door's lock cylinder was fine, no prying marks. She even got down on the floor and crawled a full lap, looking for any gap a cilantro leaf could be pushed through.
Nothing.
Mesh over the kitchen drain. Mesh over the bathroom floor drain. The balcony sliding door shut tight.
She sat on the couch hugging a cushion and ran through the whole week, start to finish. Cilantro in the takeout — the restaurant wasn't paying attention. Cilantro in the sponge — she brought it in by accident. Cilantro in the towel — blew in off the balcony while the laundry was hanging.
But every single one was fresh.
So green.
Like it had just been picked.
Her place was the sixth floor of an old complex, no elevator. North-facing balcony, not on the street, and behind the building was a vacant lot that had sat empty for years, grown over with weeds. Three months here and she'd never seen a single cilantro plant on that balcony.
That night she ordered delivery and wrote "no cilantro" in the notes three times. The box arrived clean. Not one leaf.
She let out a breath. She'd been jumpy the last couple of days, that's all.
She ate, scrolled her phone, went to brush her teeth around ten. Halfway through, she needed the bathroom. She lifted the toilet lid.
A cilantro leaf floated in the bowl.
Small. Just a fragment, riding the water, rocking twice as the lid came up.
Lin Wei stepped back and her lower back cracked into the sink edge. She hissed through her teeth. She steadied herself and stared at the leaf in the water, heart slamming.
She didn't flush.
She took a picture with her phone, then fished it out with a tissue and laid it on the sink. Fresh. Glossy green. The serrated edge sharp and clear. Exactly like the others.
She burst out of the bathroom and turned on every light she had. Living room, bedroom, kitchen, even the balcony. Then she grabbed her phone, opened the delivery app, and pulled up the Haoweilai Fast Food page.
Still there. Rating 3.8. The most recent bad review was hers from three days ago. She tapped in. The restaurant had replied. One line: "Sorry. Refunded. We'll be careful."
She backed out and scrolled the other reviews. Mostly taste is okay, cheap and filling. Then, further down, one from two months ago: "The owner is so nice. They forgot a dish once and called me personally to apologize. Five stars."
Lin Wei looked at the word "owner" for a few seconds, then scrolled back up to the reply under her own review. Timestamp three days ago. Flat tone. Standard restaurant boilerplate.
She backed out to her order history and found the order from three days ago. Under Rider Info it said "Wang Qiang." The profile picture was the default gray silhouette. Rating 4.9. She tapped the rider's page. Basic info only. Nothing more.
Lin Wei remembered the rider.
A woman. Thirties. Ponytail. Blue work jacket, helmet on. She'd smiled when she handed over the food and said "Enjoy your meal." Quiet voice. A little hoarse.
At the time Lin Wei hadn't thought anything of it. Took the food, closed the door.
Now that she thought about it, the blue jacket had looked older than most, the cuffs worn white at the edges. The helmet strap hung loose below her ear. Her face was a little sun-darkened. A small mole on her cheekbone.
Lin Wei couldn't remember her face exactly. Only that when she smiled, the lines at the corners of her eyes were deep.
She put the phone down and looked at the cilantro leaf on the sink again.
Friday night she barely slept. Tossed and turned, convinced the whole time that something was under her pillow. She flipped the pillow up twice. Nothing. But every time she lay back down and the back of her head touched it, something felt wrong.
Saturday morning Lin Wei got up with dark rings under both eyes. She put water on to boil, then went back to the bedroom, picked up the pillow, shook it out, and turned the case inside out to check the back.
Nothing.
She threw the pillow back on the bed and stood there rubbing her temples.
Maybe she really was just wound too tight.
She walked to the living room to pour herself some water. Passing the entryway, something caught at the edge of her vision — a small green thing on the shoe cabinet.
She turned her head.
On the shoe cabinet, next to her keys, lay a cilantro leaf.
Fresh. Whole. Glossy green.
Lin Wei set the cup down and backed up two steps until her shoulder blades hit the wall. She looked at the leaf, throat tightening.
She didn't touch it.
She picked up her phone and texted her landlord: "Hey, has anyone weird come around the building lately?"
Quick reply. "No? Why?"
Lin Wei typed: "Nothing, just asking. Some of the stairwell lights are out. Gets dark at night."
"I'll get someone to fix them. Stay safe."
She said thanks, pocketed the phone, and stood in the entryway looking at that leaf for a long time.
That afternoon she went out.
She went to Haoweilai Fast Food.
The shop was in an alley. Small frontage. Roll-up door half raised. Four or five tables inside, menu and payment QR codes taped to the wall. A middle-aged man sat behind the register looking at his phone. Heavy, balding, in an apron with grease stains on it.
Lin Wei walked in. The man looked up and grinned. "What can I get you?"
"Hi." She stopped just inside the door. "I wanted to ask — did a rider named Wang Qiang work for you?"
The grin faltered. His eyelid twitched. "Wang Qiang?"
"Yeah. Blue delivery box, e-bike. He delivered to me about two months ago."
The man set his phone down and stood up from the register, sizing her up. His face did something odd. He looked like he wanted to say something and swallowed it. What came out was: "What do you want with him?"
"Nothing. There was a problem with a delivery that day. I just wanted to tell him."
A few seconds of silence. Then: "Wang Qiang... he quit."
"Quit?"
"Yeah. Two months ago, more or less."
Lin Wei looked at him. "Where'd he go?"
The man looked down and wiped the counter, scrubbing harder than he needed to. "Don't know. Can't reach him either. Riders come and go. Here today, gone tomorrow. That's normal."
She didn't move.
He looked up at her again, hesitated, then added: "Miss, if there's a problem with your order, just come to me. I'm the owner. But Wang Qiang — drop it. Don't ask."
"Why?"
He didn't answer. Turned and walked into the back kitchen, throwing over his shoulder: "Busy. Not taking orders."
She walked out and stood in the alley. Autumn sun, and it made her head swim.
She took out her phone, opened the app again, found that day's order. Under Rider Info she tapped the Wang Qiang avatar. The page loaded: "This rider account has been deactivated."
Deactivated.
She stood at the mouth of the alley watching people pass, phone gripped in her hand, turning the rider's face over and over in her head. Blue jacket. Ponytail. Deep lines at the corners of her eyes when she smiled. "Enjoy your meal."
The woman had been wearing the blue jacket. Platform name printed across the back. A patch on the left shoulder. She hadn't gotten a good look at what was on it.
But she did remember this: on the rider's right wrist hung a black elastic band, the kind you tie your hair with. Loose. Just hanging there.
By the time Lin Wei got home it was almost dark.
She opened the door, changed shoes, tossed her bag on the couch, and went to the bedroom to change. Reaching back for the zipper of her dress, her fingertip brushed her nape and went cold.
She touched it. Something was stuck to her finger.
She brought it up to her eyes.
A cilantro leaf, softened by the heat of her neck, but still vividly green.
She didn't throw it away.
She laid the leaf on the nightstand, then sat on the edge of the bed, watching it.
The streetlights outside came on. Yellow light leaked through the gap in the curtains and laid a long thin stripe across the floor. Downstairs someone was walking a dog. It barked twice and got hushed.
Lin Wei sat still.
She started remembering.
When she'd moved in three months ago, one of the boxes she packed held old delivery slips, supermarket receipts, all kinds of papers. She never threw it out. It sat on top of the wardrobe waiting for a free day.
She stood, dragged a chair over, and got up on her toes to reach the box down. Dust on the lid. She patted it off and opened it.
Junk inside, mostly delivery slips. Some crumpled, some still flat. She went through them one by one. Around the seventh or eighth, her fingers stopped.
A delivery slip dated three months ago. A week before she moved. Store name: Haoweilai Fast Food. Order: shredded pork with green pepper over rice. Notes: "No cilantro, thanks." Rider: Wang Qiang.
That order.
She flipped it over. The back was blank except for a small handwritten character in the lower left corner, like it had been done with a ballpoint pen. Faint. She held it under the lamp. It was the character 娟. Missing a stroke, but readable.
Lin Wei stared at it for a long time.
She went through the rest of the slips and found two more from Haoweilai Fast Food, both from before the move. Both listed Wang Qiang as the rider. Both had "no cilantro" in the notes. Neither had anything written on the back.
She spread the three slips out on the dining table in a row.
One from three months ago with the character on the back. Two older ones, backs blank.
She picked up her phone again, opened the app, found the shop's main page, and tapped into "Business License." The photo was blurry. She zoomed in and could barely make out the characters.
Registered name: Haoweilai Fast Food Shop.
Operator: Wang Juan.
She put the phone down and looked at the three slips on the table, then at the cilantro leaf on the nightstand.
Something surfaced.
The day the woman handed her the food, she'd noticed the patch on the left shoulder of the jacket. It looked like it had writing on it. She hadn't cared then. But now she remembered: a line of small text, white on blue.
The first character was 王.
The second one looked like 娟.
Sunday morning, Lin Wei went back to Haoweilai Fast Food.
Closed up. Roll-up door all the way down, a sheet of white paper taped to it: "Closed today." She stood in front of it and peered through the gap. Pitch black inside. Nothing to see.
The woman from the grocery next door leaned out and looked at her. "Looking for someone?"
"The owner of this place."
"Oh." The woman nodded. "Old Chen. He's not in today. Might come by this afternoon."
"Old Chen's the owner?"
"Yeah. Boss Chen. Been here years."
Lin Wei paused. "What about Wang Juan?"
The woman's hands stopped mid-motion over her stock. She turned her head and stared at Lin Wei for two full seconds, her face going through several expressions before she lowered her voice. "You know Wang Juan?"
"In a way."
The woman glanced left and right, came out of the shop, and stood next to Lin Wei, voice barely above a whisper. "Miss, I'll tell you something. Wang Juan... she's been gone two months now."
Something dropped in Lin Wei's chest. "Gone?"
"Car accident. She was on the e-bike doing a delivery. Truck hit her at an intersection. She died on the spot."
The woman sighed and shook her head. "Good kid. Thirties, unmarried, ran the shop by herself. She had a rider working for her, then he quit and she did the deliveries herself. Busy in the shop all day, on the bike all night. Ran orders till midnight every night."
"So she... registered as a rider under Wang Qiang's name?"
The woman blinked. "Wang Qiang? Who told you that?"
"It's on the delivery slips."
She frowned, thinking. "A relative of hers, I think. He used to run orders for her, then he quit, and Wang Juan just kept using the account. Platform never updated it. She didn't bother either."
Lin Wei stood there, knees going weak.
The woman kept going. "The night it happened, that was her last run, they say. Hit halfway there. I heard there was still a meal in the box, undelivered. The note on it said something..."
"No cilantro."
The woman looked at her. "How do you know that?"
Lin Wei didn't answer.
She turned back to the white paper on the roll-up door, head ringing.
She'd finally matched the rider's face to the name.
The woman with the ponytail. The woman with the deep lines at the corners of her eyes when she smiled. The woman who'd said "Enjoy your meal" when she handed over the bag.
She died on the way to deliver Lin Wei's food.
And the note on that order said no cilantro.
Lin Wei got home and opened every window.
Autumn wind poured in, whipping the curtains. She stood in the middle of the living room looking at the little place she'd lived in for three months, and suddenly nothing about it was right.
The sponge in the kitchen. The towel in the bathroom. The toilet. The shoe cabinet. The pillow. The back of her neck.
One leaf. Then another. One leaf. Then another.
She went to the bedroom, picked up the pillow, and tore the case open. White pillow stuffing. Nothing. She tore the stuffing open too. Fluff flew everywhere. Still nothing.
She stood in the middle of the fluff, breathing hard, hands shaking.
She thought about the character on the back of that slip. About what the grocery woman had said. About the rider smiling when she handed over the bag.
She thought about the review she'd left.
Asked for no cilantro. Got cilantro anyway.
Was that review the last straw for her?
Lin Wei crouched and swept the fluff into a pile and dumped it in the trash. She walked to the living room, picked up her phone, opened the app, found the review. She wanted to delete it. The review couldn't be deleted anymore. Only a follow-up comment.
She typed a line in the follow-up box: "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left that review."
Then she stared at it for a long time. And deleted it.
She didn't know what else there was to say.
That night she didn't order delivery.
She sat on the couch with every light on, turned on the TV, found a variety show, and cranked the volume. She hugged a cushion and stared at the screen and absorbed none of it.
At eleven she went to wash up. Halfway through brushing, she stopped and slowly turned her head toward the toilet.
The lid was down. White plastic. Clean.
She hesitated, then reached out and lifted it.
Nothing in the bowl. The water clear to the bottom.
She let out a breath, finished brushing, washed her face, and headed for the bedroom. At the doorway she stopped.
The cilantro leaf was still on the nightstand.
She walked over and picked it up and laid it in her palm. It had wilted a bit, edges curling, color gone darker. Still green.
She closed her fist around the leaf, lay down, and turned off the light.
In the dark she kept her eyes open, looking at the ceiling.
She thought about the rider's face. About what she'd said when she handed over the food. About the black elastic on her wrist. About the two characters on the shoulder patch of her jacket.
She thought: when Wang Juan died, that meal was still in her box. The meal that said no cilantro. She never got to deliver it.
And then the obsession bent itself around.
The more you say no, the more I give.
One leaf. One leaf. One leaf.
Lin Wei held that leaf in her fist all night.
The next morning she woke up and her palm was empty.
The cilantro leaf was gone.
She sat up and looked at her hand. The lines of her palm clean, no green residue. She checked the nightstand. Nothing there either.
She got up and walked to the living room. On the coffee table sat a white plastic bag tied in a loose knot, a receipt stuck to the side.
She hadn't ordered anything.
She walked over and opened it.
Inside was a takeout box with a clear plastic lid. She could see what was inside.
Shredded pork with green pepper over rice.
On the rice, laid out in a neat row from one end to the other, cilantro leaves. Evenly spaced. Perfectly aligned.
Every one of them fresh. Every one of them glossy green.
Lin Wei raised her head slowly.
On the shoe cabinet by the door, next to her keys, lay another cilantro leaf.
She looked at it and suddenly smiled.
Then she walked over, picked up her keys, picked up the leaf, and put it in her mouth.
She chewed twice and swallowed.
She picked up the takeout box, went out, went downstairs, and dropped the box in the building's trash.
Then she went to work.
After that day, cilantro never showed up in Lin Wei's takeout again.
She never ordered from Haoweilai Fast Food again.
Only every morning, on her way out, she would leave a fresh cilantro leaf on the shoe cabinet.
And every night when she came home, the leaf would be gone.
She didn't know who took it.
She didn't want to know anymore.