In June, the sun is like a furnace.
The floor of the antique market is boiling hot.
Chen Fan sat cross-legged in front of his stall, sweat sliding down his forehead and dripping on the gray canvas at his feet.
Several "antiques" were placed in front of him.
A blue and white bowl with a chipped mouth, a few vague copper coins, and a pottery figurine with peeling paint.
He bought these from the stall next door with the money of several meals.
His real treasure is an old compass that he holds tightly in his arms.
The brass shell of the compass is covered with green rust, and the pointer has long been rusted to death, but it is something passed down from the Chen family, and it is his only thought now.
"Collect the things, collect the things! You are not allowed to display them today!"
A rude shout came.
Two uniformed urban management officers strode over pushing a cart.
The stall owners were in a hurry, picked up the canvas and ran away.
Chen Fan sighed.
He hasn't opened for three days.
