[Comprehensive] Martyrdom is not a good civilization

I walked up the wooden stairs, and the first thing I saw was the dried flowers hanging on the wall - hydrangeas.The dried flowers are carefully cared for, and no dusty dust can be seen on the branches, leaves and petals.

Only half of the second floor is used to store books and serve as a reading room. The other half is closed and covered with curtains. It is the old gentleman's bedroom.

This is not only his shop, but also his home that he has guarded all his life.

"I found it, here it is." The old man walked around the bookshelf twice with his hands behind his back, and quickly helped me take down the book.

He gently brushed off the non-existent dust on the surface of the book, and handed the book to me.

"Thank you." I solemnly took it in my arms.

"It should be. All unpacked books are [-]% off. You can choose other books by yourself. I will go down first, old man." The old man pointed to the stool in the corner, waved his hand and walked away unhurriedly.

"Okay, be careful."

There is an old window in the room. The warm orange sunset passes through the window and falls on the bookshelf. Looking at the light beam, even the floating fine dust is dancing happily in the air.

While breathing, I can smell the scent of the chemical reaction between the sunlight and the pages of the book, which is very reassuring.

I sat here quietly, and the air seemed extraordinarily comfortable.When I am old, I will also open a second-hand bookstore on a secluded street corner and raise a cuddly cat. It must be very satisfying.

"Papa, papa."

I was fantasizing about my old age, when there was a rustling sound in my ears.

What is it, is there a mouse or does the old man have any small animals?

I walked around the bookshelves twice, but I didn't see anything. It would be impolite to look elsewhere, so I stood up and prepared to go downstairs and tell the old gentleman.

Alas!

I walked out the door and bumped into an old teacup.

The mouth of the tea bowl is upward, there are two slender legs near the bottom of the cup, and there is a big and bright eye on the body of the cup.

How should I put it, it looks ugly and cute.

It was frightened by me, its slender legs arched and jumped three feet high, and it ran away and hid in the corner.

This is... a shadow teacup?

I remember I read it in "Hundred Ghosts" before. The shadow tea bowl is a little monster formed by the tea bowl absorbing the power of the earth.

It lives in an old house. If a disaster is about to happen in the house, Yingchawan will walk around and make a sound to remind the owner of the house. Sometimes it will ward off disasters for the humans it likes on a whim.

To prevent disasters for the humans you like, even if the bowl is broken, they will not feel sorry.

A shadow tea bowl is drawn under the small note, its eyes are slightly squinted and raised, very satisfied.

Is that so?

I closed the book, took one last look at the place where the shadow tea bowl was hidden, and went downstairs.

"Mister, I want this one!"

"it is good."

The old man put on his reading glasses and calculated the price with the calculator in a leisurely manner.Looking at him, I seemed to imagine Kagechawan hiding in the corner and watching secretly.

They are all alone, lonely and lively.

A hint of envy suddenly emerged in my heart, would there be something hiding in the corner and watching me?

"Thank you for your patronage." The old gentleman took the money and handed me a bookmark with a clean and elegant hand-painted Japanese style. "It's getting late, little girl go home early."

I was stunned for a while, and carefully took the title page of the book, feeling satisfied but also a little sour in my heart, I turned my face slightly to thank him: "Thank you."

Human beings are so strange that they can change their mood because of a small thing or even a word from others.

As I was walking back, the noisy and disturbing sounds disappeared, and I felt a rare sense of ease among the chaotic crowd.

The dry heart is wandering in the warm sunshine, and the fine golden light warms the heart and hair.

When I got home, I sat at the desk and wanted to draw something, but I couldn't do anything with the paintbrush, and my mind was full of shadow tea bowls.

I simply read "The Collection of Hundred Ghosts" carefully again. The protagonist from childhood to old age, together with the little monsters, feels the taste of sweetness and bitterness in the warm daily life.

The protagonist in the book's ability to see monsters gradually disappears with age, and he can only feel in the air where he can't see anything. Even so, the little monsters stayed by his side and never left.They are not passers-by in each other's lives, this is the bond.

Most of the monster images that appear in it are not in line with my imagination, they are lively and cute.

The author is really a very gentle person.

I opened the author's introduction with emotion, Shinichiro Doragi, who lives in a small town in Yahara, and suddenly wanted to visit this gentleman's place of residence.

Yahara is not close to Tokyo, so it is not a bad idea to bring painting tools as a go out to collect scenery. The scenery of the town is always different from the city scenery, and I can meet different things there.

My gut tells me so.

This weekend I'm going to pick out gifts with Akashi, and next Friday night is Chunqi's birthday party.Then, on the Saturday when the banquet is over, get up early in the morning and rush there.

I believe that the small town where such gentle people live will not let me down.

Taking a deep breath, I sat under the bright light, picked up the brush again, and the short stories about Yingchawan and the old man in the bookstore came alive on the paper.

I have always paid attention to the delicacy of painting, and my teacher also praised me for being one in a million talents. I have an innate intuition and keenness in grasping shapes and colors, but I have no heart in my paintings.

This is a very abstract term.

A painting without a heart, without empathetic emotions, will not be infused with the soul of the creator.

I can't deny it, but after many attempts, I found out in frustration—maybe I can easily become a good painter, but it's very difficult to be an impressive painter.

As for myself, under the grinding of time, the joy of rubbing the pen tip on the white paper has also disappeared.

This time, the brush skimmed the paper, leaving only rough lines, but I could feel a faint feeling, like spider silk dancing around the arms in spring, which made people get goosebumps.

"Crack." The pen fell from my fingertips and hit the table.

My heart was beating wildly, and a long-lost feeling of satisfaction in painting rushed to my heart.

After adjusting my mood, I tried my best to describe the inspiration that flashed in my heart bit by bit.

The sky turned from dark blue to dark blue, and finally broke the time boundary and turned into a dull gray.

The fingertips twitch slightly, but the story on the drawing paper has already taken shape.

The old man living alone and the ignorant innocent monster are silently watching each other from invisible places, and they are all trivial daily life.

This story, I want to personally hand it over to the old gentleman who guards the bookstore after the coloring and correction are completed.

No matter whether he knew about the little monster or not, he always felt that it was a pity that no one knew about such a warm thing.