At eleven o’clock at night, someone knocked on the carved wooden door of the antique shop Time Slices.
The young man outside was soaked through. He clutched a long object tightly wrapped in a coat, water dripping from his hair, but his eyes shone with startling intensity. “I’m looking for the shopkeeper, Shen Qingwu.”
Inside, a woman in a dark teal qipao ran her fingertips over a plum-blossom vase with crackled glaze on an antique display shelf. Her voice was as cold as frost. “We’re closed. Besides...” Her gaze passed over the ominous wisp of dark energy seeping from the object in his arms. “I don’t accept things like that here.”
“But the person who sent me said you’re the only one who can understand its ‘signal for help.’” The young man stepped forward, rainwater running down his chin, his voice unwavering. “My name is Lu Zhixing. I’m a folk-culture blogger. This thing... it cried during my livestream.”
