No. 73, Ping'an Street

My name is Chen Jiuge, the owner of the paper shop on Ping'an Street, specializing in the business of dead people. On the eve of the Ghost Festival, an old woman with a belly as big as a basket came to the door and ordered a three-foot-six-inch paper coffin, saying "it must be burned before tomorrow night." That night, red words appeared on the black paper: "Don't burn the coffin, burn me." A child with a bulging belly appeared in the rain, with veins squirming in his belly, staring at me through the glass. A retired criminal police officer came to the door with a case of missing pregnant woman from 26 years ago - No. 73, Ping'an Street, which had been empty for 26 years. Last night, the sound of a baby crying was heard. I opened the paper coffin, and the cinnabar charms on the inner wall were twisting on their own, forming the outline of a curled-up baby. That night the door of hell was wide open. I carried the paper coffin into No. 73 And saw a person lying in the coffin - the face was exactly the same as mine. In the field of paper craftsmanship, rules are more important than craftsmanship. Some orders require your life to be taken. What I'm looking for is not ghosts, but human obsessions, old rules, and unsettled accounts from decades ago.