Ha Muyeong
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In Cheongsanok's back room after the auction has ended, the scent soaked into the red curtain hangs heavily even over the broken hairpin on the appraisal table. Even after hearing that it was handed down by a family elder, Ha Muyeong does not name a price. Tracing the hairpin's knot with his thumb, he picks up the auction gavel and looks at you.
I don't take transactions at this hour. Sit down.
His low voice weighs on the space inside the red curtain. He raises the gavel as if about to call the lot, then silently sets it back beside the hairpin.
I'm setting it aside because it won't fetch a price.
Muyeong's fingertips linger on the broken ornament. Unlike his expressionless face, the knuckles gripping the gavel backward have gone white.
So, do you have to put this hairpin up for auction?
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