I once bought an antique plate online. On the photo, I saw that it had a crack and got upset. I said to the seller, “I want a discount!” He started to grumble, but agreed.
I got it delivered, and when I unpacked it, I was stunned — the dish was even more beautiful than I expected. Deep cobalt blue, with delicate gold trim, and tiny hand-painted cranes flying across the edge. The crack barely showed.
I remember standing there at my kitchen counter, holding it up to the light, thinking, I got this for half price. I felt a weird satisfaction. Almost smug.
The plate wasn’t just pretty — it felt old. Like, history-in-your-hands kind of old. I posted a picture on my Instagram, mostly to show off.
I tagged it #thriftingwin. People were impressed. A few commented that it looked Asian, maybe Japanese or Korean.
I had no idea. I just liked the vibe. That weekend, I invited my cousin Soraya over.
She’s an artist, super into ceramics. The moment she saw the plate, she froze mid-sentence and said, “Wait. Where did you get that?”
I told her the story — online auction, discounted because of the crack, good bargain, etc.
She squinted, lifted the plate gently like it was a sleeping kitten. “This looks like Kintsugi,” she said. “See that gold line?
That’s not a crack. That’s a repair. A very specific kind.”
I’d never heard of it.
She explained: Kintsugi is a Japanese technique where broken pottery is repaired with gold, not to hide the damage, but to highlight it — to honor the history of the object. To show that something broken can still be beautiful. That quieted me.
The crack I had complained about… was actually the point. I suddenly felt small. Embarrassed.
I had haggled over something I didn’t understand — something that held real value, maybe even sacred meaning. I kept thinking about the seller, how he grumbled before agreeing to knock the price down. What did he know that I didn’t?
The next day, I messaged him. I said, “Hey, I’ve done some reading. I didn’t realize this plate had Kintsugi.
I feel bad for asking for a discount.”
He read the message but didn’t reply. I tried again a few days later. “I can pay you the rest if you want.
Just let me know.”
Still nothing. Weeks passed. I moved on, kind of.
But every time I looked at that plate, I felt a weird pull — like it had unfinished business. Fast-forward three months. One of my coworkers, Taemin, overheard me telling someone about the plate.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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