Shangjing's alleyways have a unique layout, different from other places.
Even in the most remote corners, a casual turn can often lead to a quiet and elegant bookstore.
These bookstores are usually small, but as the saying goes, "A sparrow may be small but it has all the vital organs"; one can often find unexpected treasures within.
Stepping into such a shop on a bright summer afternoon, holding a book you like, and inhaling the faint scent of ink in the air is the epitome of comfort.
And the people willing to run such a small shop tend to be free-spirited and outstanding, not minding your actions—right?
"Are you the owner?"
Adopting a posture reminiscent of Ge You slouch, Fu Qian lay on a rocking chair behind the counter, his eyelids open just a slit, looking at the person standing before him.
Forty or fifty years old, tall and straight, he wore a deep gray suit that was obviously tailor-made, and his slightly graying temples were meticulously groomed.
