Divine Eye Appraisal: Starting with a Lucky Pickup of a Beautiful CEO's Family Heirloom

Behind the counter at Jianzhen Pavilion, Wen Zhaoye unzipped his canvas bag, carefully placed the yellowed old business card inside, and then put the red cloth bag—the bracelet broken in two—into it as well, pressing it on top of the business card.

He zipped up the bag and patted it.

Sun Bo'an emerged from behind the counter, clutching a neatly folded piece of paper. He walked up to Wen Zhaoye, unfolded the paper—an old map of the provincial capital's antique scene, its edges frayed, with several circles drawn on it in red pen. "The old guesthouse on Xinhua Road, it's here," Sun Bo'an said, pointing to a red circle on the map. "The year your father disappeared, that man surnamed Zhou stayed here. The guesthouse is still there, the owner has changed several times, but there's an old manager downstairs at the front desk who's worked there for twenty years; he should remember something."

Wen Zhaoye took the map, his fingertips pausing on the paper. He looked out the window; the streetlights in the direction of the provincial capital were on, a row of dim yellow lights stretching into the distance like a line. He took out his phone and sent Qin Fei a message: "I'm going to the provincial capital to see an antique dealer surnamed Zhou. Contact me if anything comes up."

A few seconds later, her phone vibrated. Qin Fei's reply was brief: "Be careful."

Wen Zhaoye put his phone back in his pocket, folded the map, and placed it in a hidden pocket compartment next to the family photo. He patted his canvas bag and said to Sun Bo'an, "Uncle, I'm leaving." Sun Bo'an nodded without saying a word, lit a cigarette, leaned against the counter, and watched him walk out of the store.

At 6:30 p.m., Wen Zhaoye stood in front of the old guesthouse on Xinhua Road in the provincial capital.

The three-story old building had a beige exterior that had faded to a grayish-white, and several tiles had fallen off the corners, revealing the blackened cement underneath. The sign was an old-fashioned neon sign; of the five characters "Xinhua Guesthouse," two were not lit.

He pushed the door open and went in.

The receptionist was an old man wearing reading glasses, flipping through a yellowed register. Hearing the door open, she glanced up at him, then looked down again and continued flipping through the register.

"A hotel?"

"Looking for someone." Wen Zhaoye walked over, took out the old business card from his pocket, and placed it on the counter. "Thirty years ago, a man surnamed Zhou lived here. Do you remember him?"

The old man raised his reading glasses, looked at the business card, then at Wen Zhaoye, remained silent for a few seconds, and then looked down at the register.

He turned to a page in the booklet, traced a few lines on the paper with his finger, and then stopped.

"I stayed there for three days, from July 14th to July 16th." The old man pointed to a line in the booklet, "Room number 201, registered name is Zhou Demao."

Wen Zhaoye's heart tightened. He went around to the front desk and peered inside. The words on the paper were crooked, but they were still legible—Zhou Demao, check-in July 14, check-out July 16.

But his gaze stopped as soon as it fell on that line of text. The name section had been crossed out with black pen.

The ink was applied very thickly and forcefully, the pen tip almost tearing the paper, but the original characters could still be discerned, and it wasn't "Zhou Demao".

"Was the name changed later?" Wen Zhaoye looked up and stared at the old man. The old man took off his reading glasses, wiped them, put them back on, looked at the line of text, and then shook his head: "This booklet was already here before I took over. I don't know about the alterations."

"Do you know who this Zhou Demao is?"

"I don't know," the old man said. "I've worked here for twenty years, seeing people every day, but I can't remember anything from thirty years ago."

Wen Zhaoye stared at the altered name, pressing his finger on the paper. He looked up, his gaze sweeping over the front desk and across the street through the glass door—a newly opened teahouse. A wooden sign hung at the entrance, bearing only one character—"Han".

A young woman in a gray long gown was standing in front of the door, bending down to tidy up the tea set. Hearing the noise, she looked up and met Wen Zhaoye's gaze.

She put down the tea set, stood up, crossed the street, and walked up to him.

"My name is Gu Qinghan." She spoke calmly, as if she were saying that the weather was nice today. "My master asked me to come and see you." Wen Zhaoye gripped the canvas bag strap, his fingers tightening.

Sun Bo'an stood beside the rented motorcycle across the street, watching the two figures recede into the distance, and lit a cigarette. The lighter clicked, the flame flickered in the evening breeze, and then went out.