The rain in late spring always brings a lingering dampness, hitting the carved window lattice of "Shiyi Zhai", disturbing the tranquility of the afternoon. Su Wantang squatted in front of the camphor wood box and brushed the dusty mirror box with her fingertips. The lotus pattern on the surface of the mahogany wood has been blurred by the years, but the exquisiteness of the past can still be seen.
"Tangtang, do you want to throw away the old things in this box? The attic is almost full." Grandma's voice came from the stairs, and the figure wearing reading glasses swayed behind the railing. The old man was holding freshly dried tangerine peels in his hands, and the air was filled with the bitter fragrance of medicine and the deep charm of wood.
Su Wantang shook her head and carefully opened the brass buckle of the mirror box: "Grandma, this is something passed down from my great-grandmother. It would be a pity to throw it away." She is an ancient book restorer, and she always has an inexplicable obsession with these old objects, as if she can read the story of time from the mottled lines.
