I was born in a small village nestled in the borderlands of Yunnan and Tibet, a place perpetually caressed by clouds and mist. My father hailed from a lineage of traditional Chinese medicine practitioners in Jiangnan, while my mother was the daughter of local Tibetan herders. Fate orchestrated their meeting on a rugged mountain path—my father was rushing to a remote village for a medical call when my mother’s horse injured its leg. Later, my mother would often say it was my father’s focused yet gentle hands as he tended to the horse’s leg that made her decide to follow him, not to Jiangnan, but to remain on this plateau that needed them more.

They became the busiest and most revered couple in the mountains. Father blended ancestral formulas with highland herbs, while mother harmonized their properties with Tibetan wisdom. Our home was always filled with the scent of medicines, and unknown well-wishers often left tsampa or mountain goods at our door. Grandmother, revered in the village as “Grass Spirit Grandma,” was the foundation of it all. She knew the nature of every leaf and blade, often taking my young self on walks through the mist-laden forests at dawn. “Look, this is Rhodiola,” her hand would brush over its fleshy leaves, “It knows how to breathe at great heights. People are the same; we must learn to find our breath even in difficulty.”

In the spring when I was seven, a sudden illness broke out in a village over the mountain. My parents left overnight, carrying medical kits filled to the brim. Grandmother tucked two bracelets into their packs: “Agarwood calms the spirit. You must steady your own hearts as well.” That was the last time I saw them. The plague took many, including my parents who had devoted themselves to healing. All that returned were their medical kits and those two bracelets, never parted from them, now smooth and warm from touch......................................