A Chipped Bowl Called Me Dad Three Times

The night his night-market stall was smashed, Zhou Chuan paid three yuan to buy a chipped, battered bowl from a fellow vendor.

The moment he touched it, the bowl spoke: "Don't sell me to Lame San."

Then it called out his father's childhood nickname: Haiwa.

His father had been missing for three years. Only his late grandmother had ever called him that.

From that day on, whenever Zhou Chuan touched a damaged old object, he could hear the last words its previous owner had left behind. Three times a day. Listen any more, and his nose would start bleeding.

A forged signature, security footage that had been cut, a text from a number that had been disconnected three years ago... The three-yuan bowl dragged him into a cultural relic smuggling ring.

He would take down everyone who had smashed his stall, one by one.