"I just got back a few days ago, so the shop doesn't have much stock—just a basket of gold ingots I folded. My hands are a bit rusty, but if you want them, you can have them," Song Miaozhu said.
It was rare to meet someone who appreciated the craft, even if she knew the old man was just trying to support her. If paper craft were really that popular, she wouldn't have spent the last few years burning money sent by her great-grandmother from the underworld.
But the old man wasn't wrong—her gold ingots, though low-grade, were better than most hell money.
"I'll take them all! You can't just give these away. I might be old, but I've still got enough cash to pay for paper money!" the old man insisted. "Take the trike tomorrow and pick them up for me. Ancestor worship day's coming up. Old Song used to say Huaishui'er could fold ingots before she could hold chopsticks—hers must be perfect."
Song Miaozhu hadn't expected the old man to be that serious about the basket of ingots!
"No need to wait till tomorrow," Zhao Mumu cut in. "Miaozhu bought a bunch of storage shelves, and I'm about to have them delivered. I'll make sure your ingots get brought back too."
"Good, good!" The old man beamed, fetching pencil and cardboard to design her shop sign with her, determined to make it flawless.
When she left, he called after her, "Huaishui'er, visit often! Mumu, don't forget my ingots!"
"Got it, Grandpa Zhao!" She waved, climbing into Zhao Mumu's three-wheeled cart.
"Master, head on inside. I will get those ingots back for you," said Zhao Mumu as she started the engine.
They led the way, followed by a small delivery truck carrying the shelving units.
"He really wants those ingots. Mentioned them five times—like I'd forget," Zhao Mumu muttered. "So, Miaozhu, how old are you? What made you open a paper craft shop?"
"Twenty-one," Song Miaozhu said. "The town's doing well now, so I came back."
"Twenty-one? Are you even graduated?"
"Six months left. I started school early."
"That's bold! At your age, I had no clue what I wanted to do."
Soon, they reached Huaihua Alley. The rest of the road was too narrow for the delivery truck, so the workers transferred the shelving units to the trike. Zhao Mumu and Song Miaozhu disembarked and walked the rest of the way.
"Here we are," said Song Miaozhu.
"This place is nice! Lived here years and never knew this alley existed." Zhao Mumu eyed the towering locust tree, then the nearby construction. "What are these shops?"
"Horror-themed escape rooms. Same owner."
Zhao Mumu inched closer, rubbing her arms. "Fits the vibe of your paper shop, huh?"
Song Miaozhu grinned. "Might boost my business. They say haunted attractions draw ghosts—plus this century-old locust tree's extra yin—"
"Stop!" Zhao Mumu clapped a hand over her mouth. "Don't. Say. Another. Word. I'm already freaked out."
"Hahaha!" Miaozhu laughed. "Ghosts aren't that scary, you know."
"Easy for you to say. You've never seen one!" Zhao Mumu protested.
Song Miaozhu, who saw ghosts every day, just smiled. "They were people once, too."
"That just makes it worse!" Zhao Mumu shuddered. "Come on, let's get moving. The workers will be here any minute. Where do you want the shelves placed?"
Inside the shop's front room, Miaozhu roughly sketched out where the shelves should go.
"You sure you didn't buy too many?" Zhao Mumu asked.
"I'll store a few upstairs in the attic," Miaozhu replied casually. Those were reserved for the ghost shop anyway.
"Oh, okay!" Zhao Mumu's eyes landed on a bamboo basket brimming with gold ingots beside the counter. "These are the ones you made? They're kinda cute—chubby and round. Honestly, they almost look real!"
"Of course! You won't find these anywhere else. This craft's been passed down since the Han dynasty," Miaozhu said proudly.
"Han dynasty? You've got evidence for that? Historical documentation is key for intangible heritage applications," Zhao Mumu pointed out.
"Sure! It's all right here." Miaozhu tapped her forehead.
Zhao Mumu snorted. "Historical records in your head? How old are you again? No, seriously—if your family passed down the craft, try checking the local county annals. You might find a mention. That'd help a lot with the heritage application."
"Alright, I'll look into it when I have time."
She wasn't joking—the Secret Art of Paper Crafting in her mind was her proof. But without the spiritual energy revival, who'd believe paper could move?
The shelves were installed quickly. Zhao Mumu left with the ingots (packed in plastic—thirty-eight yuan for the whole basket).
Her three premium ingots had sold for 300 hell coins (600 yuan). These? Barely worth the paper they were folded from.
To the living, paper gold was just paper. Even at this price, it was expensive compared to mass-printed hell notes—those went for three yuan a stack.
Compared to that, handmade ingots were expensive and a hassle to carry. Most people just followed tradition during festivals, burning whatever was convenient—function over form. Technology had made life easier and brought down production costs. And that was the real reason traditional crafts were disappearing.
For most ordinary people struggling to get by, practicality trumps everything. When cheap substitutes exist, they're always the first choice—even if the quality is worse.
That's why traditional craftsmanship must evolve—shifting toward cultural, artistic, or collectible value. That path was steep and uncertain. Fortunately, Song Miaozhu didn't rely on it for a living. Otherwise, she might have starved.
Back upstairs, she moved the extra shelving into the ghost shop. With a thought, she rearranged the space, organizing tonight's merchandise neatly on the shelves. Even if ghost customers couldn't touch the items, at least they could see them clearly—and Miaozhu could easily grab whatever they wanted.
There was still time before business hours. Finished with the setup, Song Miaozhu picked up her bamboo basket filled with gold paper and sat down at her usual spot.
She began folding another batch of ingots—gold foil between her fingers, the past and present woven into every crease.