At eleven o'clock in the night, there was a knock on the carved wooden door of the "time slice" antique shop.
The young man outside the door was soaked to the skin. He was holding a long object wrapped tightly in a coat. His hair was dripping with water, but his eyes were astonishingly bright: "I'm looking for the shop owner, Shen Qingwu."
Inside the door, a woman in a dark blue cheongsam brushed her fingertips against an ice-patterned plum vase on the ancient shelf, and her voice sounded like frost: "The store is closed. And," her eyes glanced at the ominous aura seeping out of his arms, "I won't accept the things you brought here."
"But the introducer said that only you can understand its 'distress signal.'" The young man took a step forward, and the rainwater slid down his chin, but his tone did not flinch, "My name is Lu Zhixing, and I am a folklore blogger. This thing... It cried in my live broadcast room."
