The corners of the rice paper were lifted up by the night wind, making a tiny clattering sound. Lin Yanqiu held down the last page of the ancient book to be restored, and the unique musty smell of aged paper and the fragrance of pine smoke and ink lingered on the tip of his nose. The moonlight outside the window slanted into the ancient book restoration room, coating the gold foil flowing between his fingers with a cold glow, and the dust floating in the air slowly rose and fell in the beam of light.
As the youngest restorer of ancient books at the city museum, he always likes to work overtime late at night. When everything is completely silent, when my fingertips touch those yellowed silk papers, it seems that I can hear the rustling sound of pen and ink written thousands of years ago on the paper. What is being repaired tonight is a fragmented volume from the Tang Dynasty. The pages are as brittle as butterfly wings. On it is a vague inscription "Thoughts on an Autumn Night". The ink has faded into light blue cloud patterns over the years.
"The autumn wind is clear, the autumn moon is bright..." Lin Yanqiu muttered softly, dipped a small amount of paste into his fingertips, and carefully aligned the cracked paper seams. He has been familiar with poetry since he was a child, majored in classical literature in college, and has an almost paranoid love for these words that travel through time and space. For him, restoring ancient books is not only a job, but also a way to dialogue with the ancients.
