“Nora, I’m on duty tonight. Keep an eye on the place and call me if anything happens.”

Alvin Westbrook shifted the helmet in his arms and glanced toward the counter, where his sister was buried in a book.

“Got it. Just go, you’ll be late,” Nora Westbrook replied without looking up, her voice soft but firm. Her fingers pressed steadily on the page, as if unwilling to let the wind and rain outside disrupt her thoughts.

Nora was twenty‑three, newly graduated and back home, spending her days grinding through exam prep.

Her brother, twenty‑seven, was captain of the Special Response Unit at the city’s security bureau.

Their parents, both professors, were still busy teaching their students, not even mentioning retirement.

The supermarket they ran hadn’t originally been theirs to work on. It had been opened years ago by their grandparents—Mr. Westbrook’s father and mother—just to pass the time after retiring.

Unexpectedly, the business grew better and better, eventually becoming one of the family’s proper assets.

The shop sat in the university district of Y City. Back when the whole area was still nothing but wild grass, Grandpa Westbrook caught wind of the city’s development plans and immediately bought the land.

He built a four‑story building, planning to fix it up nicely and rent it out to nearby office workers.

But on a whim, he suddenly decided he wanted to open a small convenience store.

The original shopfront was tiny, with only a few rows of shelves on the first floor.

The elderly couple sat at the entrance every day, chatting with nearby villagers and playing chess, living a relaxed and pleasant life.

But just two years later, when the university and the municipal center relocated, the area suddenly became lively.

The Westbrook family’s little shop grew along with it, expanding again and again, adding more and more shelves until its variety rivaled that of a mid‑sized supermarket in the city.

Later, when the elderly couple no longer had the energy to run the store, they returned to their hometown to build a house and retire.

The store was handed over to the hired manager, and this month, when the manager went back home to have a baby, the responsibility temporarily fell to the newly graduated Nora—watching the shop while studying, killing two birds with one stone.

After Alvin left, the supermarket grew quiet again.

Nora put on her headphones, burying herself in her notes, her writing fast and forceful as if she were fighting with herself.

By the time she snapped back to attention, she was already the only person left in the store.

Outside, the sky was gloomy, the air thick and suffocating.

“Boom—!”

A bolt of thunder struck close, jolting her upright. The computer screen flashed white, but she didn’t think much of it; she just lifted her head for a quick glance.

Rain poured down in sheets, a shallow pool already forming at the entrance. The raindrops slammed against the tiles with sharp, crackling sounds, as if the entire night had been shattered into chaotic fragments.

“It’s already this late,” Nora Westbrook muttered under her breath as she gathered her things, ready to lock up and head home.

Just then, the automatic door slid open. A boy stepped inside, maybe fourteen or fifteen. Not tall, a bit thin, dressed in a teal long robe soaked through by the rain. His hair was tied in a strange style—looked a lot like the top‑knots described in old books—and the braid had loosened from being drenched.

A large book chest hung on his back, and the umbrella in his hand was barely holding together.

“Hey there, need anything?” Nora had been set on closing up, but seeing the boy dripping water all over the floor, she still called out.

His strange outfit didn’t really shock her. Hanfu had made a comeback in recent years, and events were common around the university district. She’d even been to a couple herself.

“@#…~*…￥#*！” The boy looked frightened, but whatever he said, Nora didn’t understand a word.

“Hello?” she tried again.

His face grew even paler. He kept speaking that strange, muddled language.

“Hello? Annyeonghaseyo? Konnichiwa?” He looked like he was from somewhere in Asia, so Nora switched through a few languages.

Ten minutes passed. Still no common ground.

Nora was about to call Alvin Westbrook and have him come help when the boy seemed to sense she meant no harm. He took a cautious step closer and pointed at the steamed buns in the warming cabinet.

“You want buns?” Nora thought for a moment, then gave up waiting for an answer. She grabbed the last few meat buns—originally meant to be her late‑night snack—and handed them over. Their family’s shop never kept hot food overnight anyway.

“%！@*” he said something, then started devouring the buns like he hadn’t eaten in days.

Probably thanking her, Nora guessed. But his words were still a complete mystery.

She’d thought he was just a lost kid. Now, looking back, he was probably some youngster attending an event nearby. Most likely a Chinese kid, just speaking a dialect she couldn’t place.

The boy ate fast—too fast. Nora Westbrook worried he might choke, so she ladled him a small bowl of broth from the oden pot and added a few more skewers.

“Slow down. Drink some soup,” she told him, unsure if he could understand, but saying it anyway.

When he finished, he launched into another stream of strange words. This time Nora caught a few fragments.

“I’m not charging you. It’s a gift. Go home,” she said, waving her hands quickly.

He seemed to get the message. His eyes reddened a little. With a solemn air far beyond his age, he bowed deeply to her, then spoke a long sentence she still couldn’t decipher. After that, he placed two copper coins on the counter.

He bowed again, lifted that tattered umbrella of his, and walked into the stormy night until the rain swallowed him whole.

“Weird kid,” Nora muttered, shaking her head. She tossed the coins into her bag and locked up before heading home.

Once back, she showered off the chill and stretched out on her bed, turning the two copper coins over in her fingers.

“Qianlong Tongbao?” she murmured. “Aren’t these from the Qing Dynasty?”

The craftsmanship was good, almost too good. “They look old, but maybe they were made to look that way on purpose?” After staring at them a bit longer, she tucked them away carefully. “I’ll show them to the old man tomorrow.”

Her father, Mr. Westbrook, was the dean of the history department. Her mother taught astrophysics. They lived on campus most days and only returned on weekends.

Meanwhile, back in the quiet supermarket, the computer Nora had shut down flickered to life. The keyboard lights blinked in a steady rhythm, as if invisible fingers danced across the keys.

At dawn, the machine powered off again. Everything returned to silence, as though nothing had happened.

The next morning Nora slept past ten. No problem—the supermarket staff would open up. After a simple breakfast, she gathered her things and headed to the school where her father taught.

“Dad, where are you right now? I’m on campus. I need to talk to you about something.”

“All right. I’ll come up. Wait for me in the office.”

After the call, Nora Westbrook headed toward Mr. Westbrook’s office.

“What’s going on? You don’t usually drop in like this.”

Mr. Westbrook was fifty‑one, not a hint of gray in his hair, eyes sharp and alive.

“Dad, last night…” Nora told him everything that had happened, then placed the two copper coins on his desk.

“Qianlong Tongbao?”

Mr. Westbrook picked up a coin and studied it. “Doesn’t look like a replica…”

“What? Dad—are you saying it’s real?” Nora stared, stunned.

“Hold on. Let me check.”

He pulled out gloves and a magnifying glass from a drawer, examining the coins with care.

“That’s strange.”

Only after a long silence did he put the coins down. “You’re saying a customer gave these to you last night?”

“Yeah.” Nora nodded. “Dad… is there something wrong with them?”

“Let me put it this way. These are Qianlong Tongbao. From the size, probably early Qianlong period.”

“The Manchu script on the back reads Bao Quan. Means they were cast at the Baoquan mint.”

“But here’s the problem—these coins are too new. Do you understand?”

“Too new?” Nora blinked. “How are they new?”

The coins looked dirty, grime in the creases, and the wear marks weren’t small.

“When I say new, I don’t mean what you’re seeing.”

Mr. Westbrook shook his head. “Think about the old coins I keep at home. Their condition. Remember?”

“Oh—oh! I get it!” Nora gasped.

Like this, the truth snapped into place.

These Qianlong Tongbao were too new—unreasonably new.

As if they hadn’t spent two centuries buried in time.

As if they’d stepped straight out of the Qianlong era and landed in her hands, untouched by the years between.

“Dad… don’t tell me I ran into a ghost last night.” Nora Westbrook’s imagination went wild, and she stared at him with a miserable look.

“Come here. Read the words on that wall.” Mr. Westbrook held back the urge to roll his eyes and pointed at the side wall.

[Prosperity, Democracy, Civility, Harmony; Freedom, Equality, Justice, Rule of Law]

“Dad…” Nora puffed up her cheeks in protest.

“Cut it out. Don’t start preaching any old superstitions in my house,” Mr. Westbrook said flatly.

“Hmph.” Nora grumbled under her breath. “Anyway, Dad, is this coin worth anything?”

“I gave that kid several buns last night… and even a small bowl of hot skewers.”

“This is called a Qianlong tongbao, back inscription Manwen Baoquan, brass small-coin type. Maybe worth one or two yuan.” Mr. Westbrook spoke lazily.

Nora went silent. “….”

“You wanna sell? Yours looks pretty new. I’ll give you five apiece.” Mr. Westbrook chuckled.

“It’s yours.” Nora slumped. “I thought I struck gold… turns out it’s worth ten. Doesn’t even cover the buns.”

“Why didn’t you ask the boy for proper payment last night?” Mr. Westbrook asked.

“It was pouring. A kid standing there all alone… Forget it.” Nora sighed.

“Haha, then there you have it. No point sulking now.” Mr. Westbrook carefully put the two coins away. “Come on, let’s go find your mom and eat.”