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

The next morning, Wen Zhaoye stood at the front desk of the old guesthouse on Xinhua Road again.

The old man was still flipping through the yellowed register when he heard the door open. He glanced up at him, then looked down and continued flipping through the book. "Again?"

"Hmm." Wen Zhaoye walked to the counter and placed the canvas bag on it. "Could I take another look at that booklet?"

The old man took off his reading glasses, looked at him for five seconds, and then pushed the register towards him. Wen Zhaoye opened it, turning directly to the page from mid-July. His father's name had been crossed out in black pen, so heavily that the paper was torn. He stared at that line for a long time, then looked up: "You really have no recollection of this alteration at all?"

"No," the old man said. "This booklet was already here before I took over. I don't know anything about the alterations."

"Do you know who was in charge of this booklet before?"

"Old Zhou," the old man said, "Zhou Demao, the antique dealer you know, the one surnamed Zhou. He lived in this guesthouse before he retired, and this booklet is what he left behind."

Wen Zhaoye's finger stopped on the paper.

"Zhou Demao? Isn't he an antique collector?"

"Collecting antiques was a side job for him; he used to be the accountant at this guesthouse," the old man said. "After he retired, he left this booklet at the front desk and never threw it away."

Wen Zhaoye's breath hitched. He closed the register and ran his fingers along the cover. Then he turned to the back cover—there was a faint line of pencil writing that had been erased, but the outline was still discernible.

He squinted and leaned closer to look.

The indentation left after the pencil was erased faintly revealed two characters: Lin Shi.

Wen Zhaoye's finger stopped on the inside of the back cover. He looked up at the old man: "Have you seen this line of text before?"

The old man took the booklet, examined it against the light, and then shook his head: "Never seen it before. It was probably written by someone a long time ago and then erased."

"Where is Zhou Demao now?" "He's dead," the old man said. "He passed away five years ago from lung cancer."

Wen Zhaoye remained silent for a long time, then closed the registration book and placed it back on the counter. He walked out of the guesthouse and stood at the door, the sunlight a bit dazzling. He looked up at the opposite side—the "Han" teahouse, its door half-open. He walked over and pushed the door open. Gu Qinghan stood behind the counter, wiping the teaware. Hearing the door open, she looked up at him, said nothing, and simply placed a cup of tea on the table. Wen Zhaoye sat down at the table without touching the tea. He stared into Gu Qinghan's eyes, his voice calm: "You said yesterday that you would know after investigating the Lin family. So, what exactly is the relationship between the Lin family and my father?"

Gu Qinghan put down the tea set, glanced at him, then took out a yellowed business card from the cabinet drawer, walked up to him, and pushed it towards him.

The business card reads: Zhou Huaiyuan, Antiques Department, Lin's Cultural Media.

Wen Zhaoye picked up the business card and turned it over—on the back, someone had written an address in pen: No. 13 Wutong Street, Provincial Capital.

He looked up at Gu Qinghan.

"Who is this Zhou Huaiyuan?"

"Zhou Demao's younger brother." Gu Qinghan picked up her teacup, took a sip, and said calmly, "This man was also in the provincial capital the year your father disappeared." Wen Zhaoye held the business card, pressing his finger on the paper. He stared into Gu Qinghan's eyes, trying to see something in them, but her eyes remained so calm, revealing nothing.

How did you find this business card?

"My master gave it to me," Gu Qinghan said. "He said if you find this place, he'll give you this business card."

"Did your master already know I was coming?"

"Hmm." Gu Qinghan put down her teacup. "He said you would come, a little earlier than I expected."

Wen Zhaoye paused for a moment, then put the business card in his wallet, placing it next to the family photo. He stood up, walked to the door, and glanced back at Gu Qinghan. "Thanks." Gu Qinghan didn't say anything, but continued wiping her tea set.

Wen Zhaoye pushed open the door, sunlight shining on his face. He took out his phone, scrolled through his contacts, found Qin Fei's name, and sent a message: "Help me look up someone, Zhou Huaiyuan, he used to work in Lin's Cultural Antiques Department."

A few seconds later, the phone vibrated.

Qin Fei replied, "Investigating again? About your father?"

"Um."

"Okay, I'll check. No. 13 Wutong Street in the provincial capital. I'll have someone go and take a look."

Wen Zhaoye put his phone back in his pocket and glanced up at the "Han" teahouse. The door was half-open, so he couldn't see what the people inside were doing.

He stood on Xinhua Road, the sun shining brightly, but his heart felt heavy.

The year my father disappeared, a man named Zhou Huaiyuan was also in the provincial capital. And on the inside back cover of the altered register, the words "Lin Shi" were written.

He remembered what Sun Bo'an had said—"The Lin family in the provincial capital might know something about your father's affairs."

Now it seems that it's not possible.

It is certain.