He held the gavel and knocked down the price tag of over 10 million, but he couldn't get rid of the old scar in his palm - it was the sound of the old collector falling from the building when a certain fake was auctioned three years ago.
He held the stethoscope and listened to the heartbeats of countless people, but could not hear his own echo clearly - it was the breakdown he had hidden under the mask of gentleness after the visitor committed suicide.
The spotlight in the auction house was too bright, illuminating his sharp edge and the panic he wanted to hide; the desk lamp in the consultation room was too dim, able to accommodate other people's wounds but not his own despair.
They are each other's "lots", he wants to bid for his salvation, and he wants to value his past. When the gavel was hanging in the air, he heard him say "Don't knock", as if he was saying "Don't let me become another unexplained thought of yours"; when the stethoscope was placed on his heart, he heard him say "Stop", as if he was saying "Don't let me become another incurable case of yours".
Later, some people said they saw an unfinished button in his repair shop; some people said they saw a stopped pocket watch drawn in his lesson plan book.
The sound of the hammer fell silent after all, and the heartbeat gradually became fainter - it turns out that the best bond never requires a transaction, it just needs you to make me believe at a certain moment that I have been treasured as "not for sale" with such force.
Purpose: collectibles