Yun Zuixin squatted in front of a street stall in the ghost market, holding a broken pot full of patina in his hand, turning it over and over eight times.
The stall owner was an old man huddled in a military coat. He squinted his eyes and looked at him: "Young man, take it for fifty yuan. This is good stuff."
"Good stuff?" Yun Zuixin flicked the pot with her fingernails, her voice as dull as banging bricks, "Uncle, this thing is too leaky for pickling."
The old man was unhappy: "What do you know? This is from the Tang and Song Dynasties..."
