I knelt down on the green brick floor of the restoration room and adjusted my breathing rate for the fifth time. The fragments of a celadon lotus bowl from the Longquan kiln of the Northern Song Dynasty are moistened by the rain and azure under the shadowless lamp, and every crack is the handwriting of time.
"First use 0.3 Mm vermilion paint to draw the line." Shen Zhihan's voice came from above his head, with the characteristic restraint of a cultural relic appraiser. The cuffs of his white coat brushed past the operating table, revealing a cold white wrist. The convex arc of the wrist bone resembled the opening pattern of porcelain.
The gold foil stretched into threads under the bristle brush and followed the trembling path of my fingertips. The moment the repair knife suddenly slipped, his hand came up to cover it. The body temperature seeped into my cold knuckles through the medical rubber gloves. The rosewood workbench reflected the two overlapping silhouettes, like the smudged water marks on an ancient painting.
"Golden repair is not about covering up defects." When he let go of his hand, I smelled the special smell of fir trees mixed with the musty smell of ancient books. "It is about using scars to create a new aesthetic language."
The sycamore leaves outside the window fell on a copy of the Southern Song Dynasty's "Pingjiang Picture". I counted his footsteps as he left, and suddenly realized that some heartbeats are like unearthed bronzes, destined to oxidize into rust when they see the light of day again.
