Ena set the recording cylinder in a padded tray inside the archive conservation room. Salt had crusted around its spindle, and the outer casing carried the same Yun Cang mark as the notebook. Its number matched the margin note but not the full catalog entry.
“If we free the spindle too quickly, the surface may scrape,” Ena said. “The recording layer is old and brittle.”
Qinghe asked whether they could copy the sound before trying to play it. Ena said the archive had no working recorder that could duplicate a cylinder in this condition. They would have to free it carefully, then make a written copy of any words they could hear.
Lian brought soft brushes and a dry cloth from the hall’s conservation kit. She placed them beside the tray and asked Ena to show her how much pressure the casing could take. Han cleared the table of every metal tool that might strike the surface.
“Nothing rests on the ridged edge,” Ena said. “Hold the tray, not the cylinder.”
Yan steadied the wood beneath it. The joint technique’s strength made his grip exact, and he felt no strain. He kept his fingers away from the casing while Qinghe and Lian brushed the salt from the outer rim.
