Reborn in the senior high school classroom in 1994, I stared blankly at the butterfly hairpin on the ponytail of the girl at the desk.
The tragedy of the pawn shop's collapse in my previous life is still vivid in my mind. This time, I have the memory of treasure appraisal for the next thirty years.
>On the stall at the school gate, an old lady drank water from an enamel jug, the blue and white cup holding a textbook in her hand shining with a faint light.
"Can I sell this broken cup for fifty cents?" My hands were shaking as I held the only money I had for dinner.
The Yongle Blue and White Pressed Hand Cup - there are only three national treasure-level cultural relics left in the Forbidden City, and the fourth one is gathering dust at a second-hand bookstall.
In the black market, when I push the cup to the buyer with a sinister look on his face.
"Kid, are you keeping this cup true?"
