work as a security guard at a cemetery, and I overhear the dead chatting about getting rich quick.

On graduation day, my roommate landed a position at a prominent corporation, and my ex-girlfriend secured a job as well. I was the sole outlier—the one who took on the night shift as a cemetery security guard. My very first night on duty, I caught two graves bickering. One was berating its grandson for selling a monkey-themed stamp for just twelve yuan, while the other railed against its son for trading an antique for a mere two packs of cigarettes. The following day, I picked up a bargain for eighty yuan and flipped it for six thousand eight hundred. From that moment, I came to understand that the dead are far more candid than the living. They spoke openly about inheritances, antiquities, stashed cash, and secrets never meant to see the light of day. I built a considerable fortune by eavesdropping on grave-side gossip—until one night, when the deceased curator cursed bitterly from his tomb: "The national treasures in that display case are all fakes."