Historical Junk Recycling Bin

I was twenty-six years old, at a low point in my life, and inherited my fifth uncle's junkyard. On the first day, I found a drunken old man in ancient costume in the waste paper pile. The uncle said his name was Li Bai. I thought he was crazy. Then Xiang Yu climbed out of the old refrigerator, Qin Hui shivered in the washing machine, and Li Qingzhao sat at the door holding an old box and cried. Only then did I realize: What I inherited was not a scrap station, but a large historical scrap recycling center. More than a dozen historical figures fell into my yard at the most embarrassing moment. They had no place to go, no one wanted them, and no identity. I wanted to send them away, but I couldn't; I wanted to call the police, but I was afraid of being caught; I wanted to close the door, but I was in debt. There is no other way but to keep it. Who would have thought that I, a rag collector, would somehow have a family of "ancestors".