Lin Yanzhi's "Shiguang Pavilion" is hidden in the deepest part of Qingshiban Lane. There is a faded wooden sign hanging on the wooden door, which creaks when the wind blows. That afternoon, when Aunt Zhang, who was selling sweet-scented osmanthus cakes at the alley, came in with an old wooden box, he was squatting in front of the workbench, using tweezers to carefully remove the stuck spring of a Republic of China clock.
"Yanzhi, take a look at this object." Aunt Zhang put the wooden box on the table. The corner of the box hit the scattered copper gears and made a crisp sound. "My old man found it in the attic and said it was passed down by his great-grandfather. He said it was a 'mirror box', but the mirror inside was long gone, and there were only some scraps of wood left."
Lin Yanzhi straightened up, his fingertips still stained with some anti-rust oil. He took the wooden box. The body of the box was made of old rosewood, with several cracks on the surface and shiny corners. It could be seen that it must have been a delicate job back then. He gently opened the lid of the box, and found that the dark red velvet lining inside had long since rotted into wadding. There was a small copper drawer as big as a palm embedded in the corner, and the keyhole was half blocked by rust.
"It's a dressing box from the late Qing Dynasty." He rubbed the shallow lotus pattern carved on the wall of the box with his fingertips. Black dirt accumulated in the pattern, but the smoothness of the knife skills could still be seen. "The lock of this drawer is not broken, but it is rusty. Let me see if I can open it."
He turned around and took out a thin copper needle from the tool rack, and poured some special rust-removing liquid on the cotton ball. Aunt Zhang sat down beside him and looked at his focused profile - Lin Yanzhi was twenty-seven years old, with thin eyebrows and a shallow scar on his right eyebrow bone, which he dropped while rummaging for old wood from the roof of his old house three years ago.
