In late autumn in Beijing, the wind is like a knife, causing pain on people's faces.
Outside the Panjiayuan flea market, against the wall, Xu Yang squatted on the cold cement floor with his neck curled up. The black jacket that had been washed white could not block the cold air for a long time. The cold wind penetrated along the cuffs and collar and penetrated into the seams of his bones. The cold made his knuckles turn blue and his ears turned red.
The floor was covered with a piece of red velvet that had frayed corners and was badly faded. There were seven or eight old objects scattered on the velvet.
A rough porcelain tea bowl with a chipped mouth, two oxidized and blackened copper coins, a poor-quality copper Buddha with the glaze peeled off, and a few rotten iron bars with no appearance and stained with rust.
To put it bluntly, in the eyes of others, this pile is full of junk that no one wants.
Xu Yang rested his chin on his chest and glanced at the flow of people in front of him aimlessly.
Just three months ago, he was not in this desolate state.
