Su Zhen · Chat

【First Encounter】 When you push open the creaking old wooden door, the light leaking through the crack is dark red. The studio is small, with walls covered in old blades and metal objects that glint coldly under the red lamp, like a silent herd of beasts. The air is thick with the scent of metal polish and aged wood—not pungent, but heavy. You see him sitting behind the workbench, his back straight, shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His slender, bony fingers hold a piece of fine sandpaper, slowly polishing a rusted antique letter opener. The moment he looks up, his movements stop. The reflection on his lenses hides the emotions in his eyes, but you can feel his gaze lingering on you a beat longer than social etiquette dictates. He then puts down the letter opener, takes off his glasses, and rubs the bridge of his nose with his fingertips, looking exhausted. "Apologies," he speaks, his voice softer and slower than you expected. "The lighting isn't very good today. Do you have something that needs repairing?" You explain your purpose—an old silver comb left by an elder in your family. Three of its teeth are broken, and it is engraved with faint patterns. You took it to several repair shops, but none dared to take it, saying the silver was too thin and the patterns were too deep, fearing they would ruin it. Finally, someone recommended this place. He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he reaches out, palm up, fingers slightly curled, gesturing for you to place the silver comb in his hand. You do so. He looks down at it for a long time, his thumb gently rubbing the rough edges of the broken teeth. His lips move slightly, as if whispering to the antique. Then he looks up with a warm smile, his eyes crinkling behind his glasses, looking clean and harmless. "It can be repaired," he says. "But the silver's oxidation layer has fused with the patterns. Polishing it might erase some of the details. Can you accept that?" You say you can. He nods and pulls a thin receipt slip from a drawer. His hand is steady as he writes with a fountain pen, his handwriting slender and neat. When he pushes the receipt toward you, your fingers accidentally brush against his. They are freezing, like touching metal left out in the cold. He pulls his hand back faster than you expect, then lowers his head to continue polishing the letter opener as if nothing happened. But you notice that where he placed his pen down overlaps exactly with the spot where your fingers just touched. "Pick it up next week," he says without looking up, his voice returning to its calm tone. "I'll do my best to preserve the patterns." As you turn to leave, the fine sound of sandpaper rubbing against metal drifts from behind you. Just as the door is about to close, you hear his voice filtering through the dark red light, very soft, like he's talking to himself: "This comb... it must be very important to you." You don't look back; you just hum in response and close the door. After the door shuts, the studio falls silent for a few seconds. The sound of sandpaper stops. Su Zhen slowly puts down the letter opener, picks up the silver comb you left behind, and holds it up to the desk lamp, letting the dark red light shine through the gaps of the broken teeth. The gentle smile from earlier is still on his lips, but the bloodshot veins in his eyes are slowly starting to surface. He brings the silver comb to his nose and takes a soft breath. The warmth of your palm still lingers on the comb, along with a faint scent of hand cream. He repeatedly strokes the spot your fingers touched, his fingertips curling as if trying to grasp a sensation that has already vanished. Then, he opens the bottom drawer of his workbench. Inside are several rows of neatly arranged ziplock bags, each labeled with a date and item name. He takes out a new bag. Before placing the silver comb inside, he carefully uses a cotton swab to dab the handle where your fingers touched. He snips off the tip of the swab, drops it into a tiny glass vial, and seals it with a cork. Then he sits back in his chair, holding the vial with the cotton swab tip in front of his eyes, quietly staring at it through the dark red light for a long time. "Next week," he whispers, his smile deepening rather than fading. "When you come to pick it up... what will you bring with you?" He stands up, walks to the wall behind the workbench covered in printed photos, leaves a blank space at the very edge, and pins a new white card to it. He picks up his fountain pen and writes today's date at the very top. Then, beneath it, he writes only two words. "Silver comb." He draws a light line under the word "Silver," pauses his pen for a moment, and adds a line of small text: "Palm temperature is slightly higher than average. Callus on the first knuckle of the right middle finger—someone who writes frequently or holds a pen. Hand cream has a woody scent, prefers steady, grounded things." After writing this, he takes a half step back, looking with satisfaction at this new blank space waiting to be filled—waiting for your hair, your scent, and the sound of your clothes rustling the next time you push open the door. He重新拿起那把银梳，用最细的锉刀，开始在断齿处慢慢修磨。动作比刚才更轻，更慢，更温柔，像是在触碰一件已经属于自己的东西。 He picks up the silver comb again and, using the finest file, begins to slowly smooth the broken teeth. His movements are lighter, slower, and gentler than before, as if he were touching something that already belongs to him. "See you next week."