In the autumn of the seventh year of Yongchang, Bianjing.
Zhao Yan, a taciturn ancient book restorer, guarded the ancestral "Jiyazhai" and made a living repairing insect-eaten and water-damaged ancient books for dignitaries. He has superb skills and a withdrawn personality, and his life is as calm as the ink on the desk.
Until one rainy night, Liu San, a bookseller in the west of the city, was soaked and opened the door of his shop. He threw half a fragment of "Strange Stories" soaked in dark red stains and exuding ominous blood in front of him.
Hidden between the pages of the book is a painting of human skin as thin as a cicada's wings, with the woman's features and eyes in the painting lifelike.
That night, a woman in white stood beside Zhao Yan's bedside, her voice as ethereal as torn silk: "Since you have taken off my painting, you must give me back a new one."
