On the desk, a small porcelain dish containing ink had dried up, and alongside it, a bottle of 500-milliliter ink appeared to be newly opened, almost completely used up.
Manman's eyebrows lightly furrowed as she returned her gaze to the scroll her father had asked her to look at.
It was a set of characters, inscribing an exceedingly ordinary plum blossom poem.
The handwriting was notably neat, and the force behind each stroke seemed as if it soaked through to the back of the paper, clearly evidencing the energy expended by the calligrapher.
With just a few glances, she had discerned the subtleties within.
