On the fifth day of Shen’s Ghost‑Writing Service, a major commission arrived.
The client was a woman in her thirties, dressed in plain coarse cloth.
Her eyes were swollen like peaches.
She sat down at the stall and wept for a full quarter‑hour without speaking.
Shen Xian simply refilled her teacup, not pressing her.
When her sobs subsided, she gasped out her story.
Her husband Zhao Si worked as a porter.
Three days ago he had carried sacks for the grain warehouse, yet his wages were withheld.
When he went to demand payment, he quarrelled with the manager.
That very night he was thrown into county jail.
The grain warehouse had framed him for theft, claiming two sacks of rice had gone missing and that he had been caught red‑handed.
“Sir,” she clutched Shen Xian’s sleeve.
“My husband is innocent!
He has worked eight years as a porter and never stolen a single thread from an employer!”
“Caught red‑handed,” Shen Xian repeated.
“Where was the contraband found on him?”
“They said they found a rice sack on his person…”
“Was that sack his own?”
“It was his!
He carried it for his own rations!
Every porter brings food with them, sir!” You are reading on g.com, the official source.
Shen Xian tapped his fingers against the table.
“How many sacks of rice were stolen?”
“Two sacks.”
“Was Zhao Si alone?”
“All by himself.”
“Two sacks, sixty jin total.” Shen Xian let out a short laugh.
“Carrying sixty jin of stolen rice all the way from the warehouse to your home, without a single witness seeing him?
And furthermore — if he intended to steal rice, why would he dare walk about that very night carrying his own sack marked with his name?”
The woman stopped crying.
“So you mean…”
“I mean I shall write your petition.” Shen Xian spread out paper.
“But I will not write about grievances.”
“What shall you write then?”
“Three questions.” Shen Xian took up his brush.
“First: On the night of the theft, who held the keys to the warehouse?
Second: Were there witnesses for Zhao Si entering and leaving the warehouse?
How fresh is the ink for the character ‘Zhao’ written on the rice sack?
Third: Sixty jin across two sacks.
If Zhao Si had been hauling that weight through town deep in the night, why did the garrison soldiers manning the city‑gate curfew spot nothing?”
He finished writing and blew on the drying ink.
“Take this to the county court.
Remember, after you submit it, sit outside the yamen gate every day.
To anyone who asks, repeat only one sentence: ‘My husband has been a porter eight years.
Two sacks of rice are too heavy for him to steal, and not worth stealing.'”
The woman thanked him profusely and laid down fifty copper coins.
Shen Xian pushed the money back.
“Pay me another fifty once you win your case.”
Towards dusk, Old Master Chen wandered over, picked up the petition, and drew a sharp breath.
“Young man, this petition… if submitted, the grain‑warehouse manager will lose more than skin.”
“He wronged an honest man,” Shen Xian packed his stall.
“That suffering is of his own making.”
“Aren’t you afraid of offending the grain‑merchant guild?”
“I am afraid,” Shen Xian replied honestly.
“Therefore I signed ‘Shen’s Service’, not my real name.”
Old Master Chen fell speechless.
Lesson of the survival‑minded: When doing good deeds, do not leave your real name.
Use a trade name instead.