When Gu Chengjun's brush swept over the cracks in the gold paint at the end of the eyes of the Ming Dynasty lady figurine, the clay that had been lying on the restoration table for seventeen days suddenly made a soft sound like gravel rubbing against it.
"Blood..."
His fingertips trembled violently.
"It soaked through the third hidden compartment of the makeup box."
In the white light of the restoration lamp, the gold powder on the eyelashes of the porcelain figurine rustled down, revealing a line of very shallow scratches underneath - "In the 23rd year of Jiajing, the daughter of the Shen family was buried with her."
And this pottery doll, which should have been sleeping for four hundred years, is now using a broken voice to utter secrets that are not even recorded in local chronicles: "The moon is black at night, and the hands are wearing black brocade with cloud patterns..."
The wooden door of Qingzhu Pavilion creaked open as the wind squeaked open, and a chill ran down Gu Chengjun's neck - he had been repairing antiquities for ten years, and this was the first time he heard a "dead thing" speak.
