Su Zhe could smell the smell of the flea market in the south of the city with his eyes closed - the musty smell of old books, the smell of copper rust, and the aroma of roasted sweet potatoes wafting from nowhere. They mixed together and became the background of the city.
He was squatting behind his stall, with a broken mat under his butt and a thermos cup in his hand. The tea leaves in it were almost gone. The things on the stall were also shabby: a few rusty copper coin strings, two broken purple clay pots of no apparent age, and a pile of bottles and cans. The biggest selling point was that they were "old". As for how old they were, Su Zhe himself couldn't tell.
