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Liangge was a limping pickpocket—back in the old days, they’d call him a “jianlui”: the kind who could lift your wallet without you feeling a thing.

Top: Galbanum, Calamus, Wormwood Leaf
Middle: Cypress, Blue Tansy
Base: Iris, Patchouli, Papyrus, Agarwood

In Songbai Village, everybody knew his name and his reputation. If someone from the village got into a scrap with an outsider, folks didn’t go looking for fists or lawyers. They went straight to Liangge. And when he came back, half a pound of crispy, fatty braised pork and half a box of cheap green-label beer were always waiting on his rickety table. That was how you said “thanks,” “sorry,” and “we see you” all at once.

He lived alone—no parents, no wife, no kids—just him and that crooked old pine tree at the very edge of the village. He did odd jobs now and then: hauling sacks, fixing fences, sweeping courtyards. Nobody minded. Why? ’Cause Liangge had one iron rule: he never touched a villager’s pocket. Not once. So folks slipped him rice, salt, firewood, sometimes even a warm coat in winter. And Liangge was always smiling, always cracking jokes, always calling everyone “Brother” or “Auntie,” like he’d known them since birth.

How’d he get that limp? Rumors flew like sparrows: some said he ran from the army and got his knee smashed; others swore he got caught mid-heist and took a beating. Liangge just shrugged and said, “Rheumatism. Been hurting since ’78.” Truth was, you could smell him coming—sharp, sour, medicinal—like cheap liniment mixed with old bandages and camphor ointment. You’d catch that smell near the stairwell, behind Old Man Zhao’s shed… or, weirdly, right outside the women’s bathhouse door. Nobody asked. Nobody needed to.

Then came that mess with Little Wei—the village boy who fell hard for a girl from the next town over. Problem was, she’d already caught the eye of a rich young master whose family made perfume and incense. Wei got shoved into the river, soaked and humiliated—and worse, laughed at. So he showed up at Liangge’s place with pork, beer, and a look that said, “Make it hurt.” Liangge didn’t hesitate. He ate the fattiest bite off the plate, licked his thumb, and hobbled out, still chewing into the dusk.

He got the jade pendant. Got the embroidered sachet too. But the master’s nose, trained on sandalwood and musk since childhood, caught him. One whiff of Liangge’s ointment stink and—bam—he was grabbed before he’d even cleared the gate.

Liangge died soon after. No trial. No funeral bell. Just buried under that crooked pine. These days, when something burns in your chest, when life feels unfair or someone gets away with being cruel, you don’t shout. You grab half a pound of pork, crack open a cold beer, and sit awhile under the pine. You don’t talk much. You just sit. And sometimes, if the wind’s right, you swear you catch that faint, familiar tang—liniment, sweat, and stubbornness hanging in the air.