Every old thing that cannot be touched in this city holds an old story for a living person.
I was originally just a surveyor of old buildings, until that year when the old theater was demolished, workers took out a bronze mirror from the base. That night when the mirror was turned up to the sky, the sound of opera singing could be heard in the whole street. Later I realized that some things in this world are not antiques, but antiques. They cannot be broken, moved, or misplaced. The stele in the well, the pile under the bridge, the lock on the temple door, the nails on the old locust tree, the stone cow in the river bend... Behind each of the town objects, there is a story about a person who refuses to let go. And it was only after I entered the Department of Antiquities that I discovered that the real people in this city were never ghosts.
