
Notes of a Relic Organizer
About This Novel
My name is Lin Du, I am thirty-four years old and a relic organizer. He resigned from the museum three years ago because he couldn't stand the thought of restoring Song Dynasty porcelain bowls being given more priority than restoring people's memories. My job: Enter the space of the deceased, organize the belongings, classify, file, clear, and finally return the house. The process takes three to seven days, depending on the number of relics. But I set extra rules for myself - write them on the title page of my notebook, handwritten, and add them at any time: 1. Don't presuppose the morality of the deceased, let the objects speak first. 2. When privacy is discovered, you have the right to choose not to write a report. 3. After each sorting, call the deceased's last phone number to confirm that the unsent information actually existed. 4. Do not organize your own belongings. This article is written in red pen and has never been violated until August 2024. The death I saw was silent: half a bottle of milk in the refrigerator, a human-shaped dent on the sofa, dead pothos on the windowsill but the flower pot was clean - someone wanted to water it, but then forgot, or died later. Objects outlive people. This notebook was originally a work diary. But as I write and write, I find that I am recording living things - not the deceased's, but mine; not the past, but the present. Every tidying up is a complicity with the death of a stranger, and then carrying his traces, we continue our daily life. Five cases in the first season. I didn't know at the time that this was the first season, that there would be a second and third season, or that the fourth law would be broken in the eighth case. At that time, I only knew that after each case, I needed to write something-not for filing, but so that I could continue on to the next one. Some waiting is not for the results. I write this also to wait.
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