I had been selling meat at the market for twenty years when I came to remember a little girl. She was about eight years old and passed by on her way home from school every day. Whenever I wasn't looking, she would secretly slip a small piece of leftover fatty meat into her pocket. I saw her, but I never called her out. A little piece of fat could only render a bit of oil, but it was enough to feed her and her younger brother for several meals. Every day, I deliberately set aside the best scraps for her to take. Twenty years later, a beautifully dressed young woman stood before my stall. With tears in her eyes, she took something out of her bag and said, 'Uncle, if it hadn't been for you back then, my younger brother wouldn't have survived.' I froze, and the knife in my hand nearly slipped to the ground.