The bluestone road was soaked with morning dew and shone brightly. The fine morning light filtered through the sycamore leaves at the entrance of the alley fell on the wooden plaque of "Yanzhi Pavilion". The corners of the plaque have a touch of warmth from the passage of time, and they seem to be two worlds apart from the bustling traffic of the city outside the alley.
The wooden door of the studio is ajar. When you push the door open, you will first be greeted by the refreshing fragrance of ink, mixed with the faint aroma of camphor wood, making people unconsciously slow down their steps. The light in the room is soft, and there is a large pear wood table next to the window. On the table, ancient books, brushes, paste, tweezers and other tools are neatly stacked, as well as a few pieces of freshly dried mulberry paper with a natural off-white color.
Shen Yanci was sitting in front of the case, holding a pair of hair-thin bamboo tweezers at his fingertips, carefully peeling off the mold spots on a page of yellowed ancient books. He was wearing a plain cotton and linen shirt, with the cuffs rolled up to his forearms, revealing his clean wrists. The sun fell on his chiseled profile, and his eyelashes cast light shadows. His expression was so focused that it was as if all that was left in the world was the antique in his hand.
