At eleven o'clock in the evening, only a few street lights were left on Wutong Street.
The bookstore called "Time" on the corner still shines with a warm yellow light, like the last unextinguished lighthouse on the vast sea. A thin layer of water mist condensed on the glass window, blurring the spines of books stacked to the ceiling in the room, and also blurring the thin figure leaning in front of the long wooden table.
Shen Qingyan put down the ancient book repair tweezers in his hand and rubbed his sore neck. On the table is a book of commentaries on "The Classic of Mountains and Seas" from the Republic of China period that has just been partially repaired. The moth-eaten traces are like a unique star map left by the years. He likes this time, when the world quiets down, leaving only the subtle sounds of paper, ink and time.
