After I died, they cried in the live studio

Chapter 173 Love Story
"Knock knock—" Orange knocked on the door and came in, holding a gift bag: "This is a prop sent by Sister Li Wei. She said there are some of your personal items in it." Sang Jiyue opened the bag and a silver ring fell out. The ring face was half a complete lotus flower—it was the wedding ring of her character in the play, but it was taken away by Sang Shuwan's team before filming wrapped up under the pretext of "uniform recycling of props." Now it was secretly stuffed into her cardboard box.

The phone vibrated on the coffee table. A message from Sang Shuwan popped up in the family group chat, along with a photo of the two of them in front of a cake, captioned "Happy wrap-up, my game-changer." Sang Jiyue stared at the hand that was on her shoulder in the photo, her nails almost digging into her palm—that hand was pinching her shoulder in the blind spot of the camera, the pressure just enough to make her smile stiffly in front of the lens.

At two in the morning, Sang Shuwan lay in the bathtub, the red marks left by the shoulder armor of her costume soaking in the rose bath salts. She opened her tablet and checked the casting list for "Tribes and Empires: Storm of Prophecy." Sang Jiyue's name was prominently listed, and the character's biography described her as "a female general with a ten-year bond with the female lead." She suddenly chuckled, circling the word "bond" with her fingertip—ten years ago, they first met in the rehearsal room, and Sang Jiyue had stolen the center position she had prepared for three months; now it was just a replay of the past.

Meanwhile, Sang Jiyue stood by the bay window, gazing at the lights of Sang Shuwan's villa in the distance. She took out her phone and sent a message to her agent: "Spoil the paparazzi with the story of 'Sang Shuwan stealing a role,' and remember to attach the recording of her asking the assistant director to change my lines last week." The screen lit up, and a new message notification appeared: "The trailer for the documentary 'Pear Blossom Whispers' has been released, and the 'sisterly banter' clip between you and Sister Sang has surpassed one million views."

The snow stopped, and moonlight shone on the jade bracelet on Sang Jiyue's wrist, the character "Shu" on the inside resembling a scar. She suddenly ripped off the bracelet and threw it into the deepest part of the drawer, where lay the "return gift" she had prepared—a video of Sang Shuwan falling on the red carpet last year. Off-camera, Sang Jiyue reached out to help her up, but the other woman took the opportunity to grab her wrist, confirming the "plastic sisterhood" drama in front of the media.

As the midnight bells rang, two women, in different spaces, stared at the subtle patterns on their costumes and the press releases on their phones, both revealing similar cold smiles. The fireworks of the wrap party had long since faded, but their power struggles were only just beginning—in front of the camera, they were "game-changers"; behind the camera, they were "chess players." Every line, every position, every prop was a meticulously designed piece, and in the center of the chessboard, there always stood a lotus flower, both incomplete and whole, witnessing this never-ending war of fame, fortune, and ambition.

As snowflakes fell on the villa's French windows, Sang Shuwan had just pushed open the wooden door to the entrance when warm orange light, carrying the scent of cedar, wafted in. Jiang Cimu was squatting on the ground, putting a leash on the golden retriever "Breakthrough." Hearing the noise, he looked up, his eyes reflecting the gilded lotus flower still on her costume, and the corners of his lips still stained with the white fluff from brushing the dog.

"Why didn't you remove your makeup first?" He stood up and took her costume coat, his fingertips tracing the concealer on her collarbone. "I saw Jiyue knock off your sticker at the banquet hall today. Does it hurt?" His warm palm covered her neck, carrying the warmth of a shower, reminding Sang Shuwan of the words "Shuwan" engraved on the inside of the breastplate when he shielded her from the wires in the final scene of filming.

The dressing room lights came on, and Sang Shuwan sat on a cushion, watching Jiang Cimu mix makeup remover at the sink. He was wearing the coral fleece pajamas she had given him, with tiny, half-flowered lotus flowers embroidered on the cuffs—she had embroidered them herself when they became engaged, saying she wanted to hide the courage to "break the deadlock" in everyday life. "Today, Brother Wei made a replica of our wedding ring as a prop," she said, touching the silver ring on the dressing table. The half-flower on the ring's face could be perfectly pieced together with Jiang Cimu's ring to form a complete set. "The girls in the crew all say this is the sweetest 'token of power struggles' in history."

Jiang Cimu suddenly wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on the top of her head: "Is it sweet?" His fingertips traced the jade bracelet on her wrist, the two characters "Cimu" on the inside shining from his body heat. "I think it was even sweeter when you secretly stuffed pear syrup candy into my thermos on set—that day, Brother Wei drank my water and said, 'Why is there a sour taste of love in the tea of ​​the Qingzhou naval commander?'"

As the two laughed together, the oven dinged from the kitchen. Jiang Cimu went to get the late-night snack, and Sang Shuwan removed her stage makeup, revealing a red mark on her neck in the mirror—a chafing from the metal when she wore the armor earlier that day. She touched the mark and chuckled, remembering three months ago at the Jinghe film set, when Jiang Cimu held up a reflector for her all afternoon, leaving a "Shu" shaped mark on his own neck.

At the dining table, Jiang Cimu cut open a cheesecake, revealing a gold leaf pear blossom hidden in the cream: "The pastry chef said this is called 'Changming Xiaozhu's Sweetness'." He forked a piece and fed it to her, the frosting shimmering under the light. "Do you know what I found in the props department today? On the inside of your armor's shoulder armor is engraved the date of our first date—March 15, 2018. You were wearing a trench coat with a missing lotus flower on it."

Sang Shuwan chuckled, a sip of cake in her mouth. She recalled that day at the antique shop in Pear Blossom Lane, when she pointed to a jade pendant with a missing lotus flower and said, "It's like the courage to break the deadlock." Jiang Cimu, however, bought it for her, saying, "Breaking the deadlock is not as good as maintaining it. Maintaining the deadlock is my deadlock." At this moment, he wore the silver bracelet she had given him, engraved with the initials of her name, which gleamed warmly under the table lamp.

After a late-night snack, Jiang Cimu nestled on the sofa watching behind-the-scenes footage, while Sang Shuwan leaned on his lap flipping through the script. A scene from their "Listening Snow Pavilion" flashed on the screen; Jiang Cimu's gesture of smoothing her hair was so natural that even after the director yelled "Cut!", he was still brushing snowflakes from her hair. "Look," she poked at the reflection of her earring in the video, "the audience is all guessing if we're a real couple in and out of the show, but they don't know that the inside of your breastplate is already engraved with 'Shuwan is the day of return.'"

Jiang Cimu suddenly turned off the video and lowered his head to kiss her forehead: "When will you return?" He pointed to the snow scene outside the French window, where the pear tree she had planted herself in the yard was covered with fresh snow. "Your return is when you come home after work, and mine is when I see you without your makeup—more real than any character, warmer than any code."

The water clock dripped in the stillness. Sang Shuwan gazed at the two jade pendants on the coffee table. The tokens that symbolized the "breakup" in the play now lay in the soft light of reality, their missing pieces and complete pieces intertwined. Jiang Cimu draped a blanket over her, his fingertips brushing against the artificial pear blossoms that remained in her hair. "Come with me to the film set tomorrow," he suddenly said. "The props team has put a copy of our marriage certificate into the 'Changming Xiaozhu' scene. The names 'He Yu' and 'Shuwan' at the end are more moving than any script."

The snow stopped, and moonlight streamed through the gauze window, illuminating Jiang Cimu's hands massaging her shoulders. His fingertips touched the small mole on the back of her neck—his exclusive "secret code" for breaking the deadlock. Sang Shuwan suddenly turned and hugged him, smelling the cedar scent on his collar. Suddenly, she felt that all the power struggles on set and the backstabbing on the red carpet had transformed into the warm light in the villa, into the warmth of his palm, into a "long-lasting game" that was more solid than any political maneuvering, belonging to them.

That night, the gilded lotus on her costume was no longer armor, but the light he left on for her; the coded language in the play was no longer scheming, but the sweetness he hid in the pear syrup candy. As Jiang Cimu carried her towards the bedroom, passing through the entrance hall, she saw her opera shoes and his slippers placed side by side, the character "疏" on the heel touching the character "辞" on the sole, just like the pair of lotus flowers pieced together in the play, blooming in the soil of reality, the most stable and never-fading spring.

The weekend sunlight slanted into the kitchen. Sang Shuwan was tiptoeing to get coffee beans from the cupboard, the wisps of hair on the back of her neck ruffled by the wind, revealing a small mole on the side of her neck. Jiang Cimu wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, his fingertips lightly tracing her spine twice—their unique morning greeting, even more intimate than a simple "good morning." "Kenya or Geisha today?" She turned and bumped into him, the faint scent of cedarwood on his cotton pajamas brushing against her nose—a fragrance deliberately added to his laundry detergent.

As the coffee machine hummed, Jiang Cimu had already set out blue and white plates on the table. The edges of the plates were hand-painted with lotus flowers with missing corners, which Sang Shuwan had made in her pottery class last year. "The golden retriever has dragged the sofa cushions to the balcony again," he said, pointing to "Broken Point" lying in the sunlight, its tail sweeping across the wool carpet on the floor. "The anti-slip mat we just replaced yesterday has been chewed into a lotus-shaped hole by it."

Sang Shuwan smiled and pushed the hot cocoa towards him, sprinkling a crooked flower of cocoa powder on the foam at the rim of the cup: "Let it be," she said, looking at the dog sunbathing with its belly up. "Anyway, the pear tree branches on the balcony have grown out, and next month we can build it a doghouse with a flower stand—using the old wood we picked up in the suburbs."

After breakfast came the usual garden time. Jiang Cimu squatted by the flower bed, loosening the soil around the newly planted lily of the valley, while Sang Shuwan held a ceramic pot and filled a watering can with water. Water droplets dripped from the spout and gathered into small crescents on her fingertips. "Remember?" she suddenly asked, looking at the mud spots on the knees of his jeans. "Last year when we bought this lily of the valley at the market, the vendor said, 'The language of lily of the valley is returning to happiness,' but you insisted, 'Why not call it the game-breaking flower, because its roots resemble a chessboard?'"

Jiang Cimu looked up, sunlight filtering through the silver hairpin in her hair—an old item they'd found in the ancient town, not a costume prop, but simply because they liked the missing lotus flower design on the hairpin's head. "Later we discovered that roots really do grow along the cracks in the stone slabs," he smiled, pointing to the blue bricks at the edge of the flowerbed, where clusters of new shoots sprouted from the fine veins, "like paving their own way, just like the note you left me on set, always hiding surprises around the corner."

The afternoon sun was perfect for curling up by the bay window to read. Sang Shuwan was curled up on the beige beanbag chair, a blanket hand-knitted by Jiang Cimu covering her lap; the crooked stitches were the result of three months of practice. In the novel she was reading, the male and female protagonists used bookplates as a code. She suddenly remembered the bookshelf at home, where every book she liked contained a little note from Jiang Cimu, such as page 52 of *Love in the Time of Cholera*: "Your eyes are hotter than Ariza's telegrams."

"Want to try the new pour-over kettle?" Jiang Cimu poked his head out of the study, waving a kettle with a walnut handle in his hand. "Wei sent it, saying the spout's curve is like a lotus flower with a missing corner—" Before he could finish, Sang Shuwan glared at him, and he immediately corrected himself, "Ahem, he said the spout's curve is like the corner of your smiling lips."

Afternoon tea took place in the glass conservatory. Sang Shuwan baked a lemon pound cake, and Jiang Cimu made mint lime water; ice cubes clinked softly in the glasses. Suddenly, "Breaking the Game" jumped onto the table with a plush toy in its mouth. The toy's belly was embroidered with the words "Eternal Light," which Sang Shuwan had made from an old scarf. "Let's take it to the pet park tomorrow," she said, stroking the dog's soft ears. "Last time I saw a Border Collie named 'Breaking the Game,' and it chased it all over the lawn."

As dusk settled into the living room, Jiang Cimu was cooking borscht in the kitchen, while Sang Shuwan leaned against the doorframe watching him chop carrots. The warm yellow light illuminated his slightly curly hair, and the apron straps were loosely tied at his waist. She suddenly remembered when they first moved in together, how he had cooked spaghetti into a paste, yet earnestly said, "Failure is a missing piece of success; filling it in makes it perfect."

"What are you thinking about?" Jiang Cimu turned around, a soup spoon in his hand, the handle smeared with tomato sauce. "Want to try some?" Sang Shuwan leaned over and took a bite. The sweet and sour flavor burst on her tongue, mixed with the aroma of beef, warming her more than any food from the film crew's catering truck. She suddenly reached out and wiped the sauce from the tip of his nose, her fingertips tracing the laugh lines on his face. "I was thinking that happiness doesn't need secret codes. Just like this bowl of soup, warm and fragrant, that's enough."

The time after dinner belonged to the projector. They snuggled on the sofa, with "PoJi" perched between them, its tail occasionally brushing against the remote. Jiang Cimu chose an old movie, but Sang Shuwan stared blankly at his collarbone, which was exposed at the neckline of his sweater—there was a light brown birthmark there, shaped like a small leaf, her signature mark every time she leaned against it.

"Tired?" Jiang Cimu turned off the projector, pulled her into his arms, and traced his fingertips along her spine twice. "Let's go to the suburbs to see the pear blossoms tomorrow. The guesthouse owner said the flowers are in full bloom this week, and we can even take our 'broken-down' doghouse to assemble." Sang Shuwan nodded, listening to the beating of his heart, and suddenly felt that this kind of everyday life was more touching than any carefully designed plot—no power struggles, no secret codes, only sunshine, the aroma of soup, the purring of the dog, and the warmth of the person beside her.

As the night wind picked up, Jiang Cimu tucked her in, the moonlight filtering through the gauze curtains and casting dappled shadows on his face. Half-asleep, Sang Shuwan grasped his hand, her fingers touching the silver ring on his ring finger, the half-lotus flower on its face pressed against her palm. She knew this was their "breakthrough"—not hiding their names in costumes, but making each other's presence the warmest part of their everyday lives.

The spring sunshine, like melted butter, spread evenly across the garden lawn. Sang Shuwan lay in her rattan hammock, the delicate fragrance of pear blossoms lingering around her nose. Petals occasionally fell onto the pages of her open book, like gentle stamps from nature. Jiang Cimu sat on a wooden chair beside her, a "Gardening Handbook" open on his lap, his gaze constantly drifting towards her, watching the sunlight weave tiny shadows on her eyelashes, watching the corners of her lips gently lift as she turned the pages.

“This blue plumbago needs pruning.” He traced the illustrations in the manual with his fingertips, but the scissors hesitated to fall. Instead, he reached out and brushed the petals from her hair. Sang Shuwan closed the book, looking at the grass clippings on his hoodie, and suddenly felt that this moment was more moving than any script—no costumes to restrict her, no spotlight to follow her, only the rustling of the wind through the pear trees and the soft barking of butterflies chasing each other in the distance.

She rolled over, the hammock swaying gently, startling a few butterflies that had landed on the pages of her book. “Last year you said you wanted to plant a mimosa tree in the middle of the lawn,” she said, gazing at the pear blossom branches overhead, petals falling onto Jiang Cimu’s hair like scattered diamonds. “Now, the pear blossoms have become our natural parasol.” He smiled, plucked a petal from her head, and suddenly got up to fetch a knitted blanket from the cabin, covering her ankles exposed outside the hammock. “The mimosa tree will have to wait until our little impoverished family grows up,” he said, pointing to the golden retriever rolling in the dandelions. “It’s nice to have pear blossoms to keep you company while you sunbathe—” He suddenly leaned closer, his nose almost touching hers. “At least the petals won’t stick to my freshly washed hair.” Sang Shuwan smiled and pushed his shoulder, but touched the firm muscles beneath his hoodie, remembering how he had accompanied her on a morning run last winter, his breath steaming on the frosty lawn.

A glass jar on the wooden table contained chilled plum juice, droplets sliding down its sides and refracting tiny rainbows in the sunlight. Jiang Cimu unscrewed the lid, and a sweet and sour aroma mixed with the coolness of mint wafted out. He poured her a glass first, the condensation on the glass making her fingertips feel cold. "Wei-ge sent these plums yesterday," he said, shaking the jar, "saying they needed to steep for three months before drinking, but you secretly opened it the day before yesterday, and now it's become our special spring drink."

Sang Shuwan sipped her plum juice, watching him pull a leather notebook from his pocket. The cover had a missing-corner lotus sticker they'd bought in the old town. It was their "life journal," recording the flowers they'd planted together, the movies they'd watched, and the little wishes she'd casually mentioned. "Last week you said, 'Lying in a hammock, the clouds look like cotton candy,'" he turned to a new page, the pen scratching across the paper. "The clouds today really do look like cotton candy. Want to draw them?"

Looking at his earnest expression, she suddenly remembered the day he proposed. Under the pear tree, he opened the same notebook, which contained all their train tickets, movie ticket stubs, and a little lotus flower she had casually drawn. Now, the clouds he drew were crooked and distorted, but beneath them were two little figures holding hands, with the words "March 15, 2024, Miss Sang's Cotton Candy Cloud" written next to them.

Suddenly, "Breaking the Game" came running over with a dry twig in its mouth, placed its prize on Sang Shuwan's lap, and wagged its tail like a blooming golden daisy. Jiang Cimu reached out to remove the grass seeds stuck to its fur, his palm touching its warm fur: "Let's take it to the pet pool tomorrow," he said, looking at the dog's wet nose. "Last time I saw it chasing ducks and almost falling into the lake, it was like it was going to perform a 'Water Breaking the Game'."

As the sun gradually slanted westward, the shadow of the hammock stretched long across the lawn. Sang Shuwan watched Jiang Cimu grooming the dog, his fingertips running through the golden retriever's fur. Suddenly, she realized that this was the "breakthrough" she had always wanted—not scheming and plotting in a play, but living life in reality, watching him turn each day into a poem imbued with the scent of sunshine, every moment filled with unspoken tenderness.

As dusk settled over the pear trees, Jiang Cimu suddenly lay down in the hammock, snuggling up beside her. The hammock swayed gently, their shoulders pressed together, his hand slipping between her fingers, the warmth of his palm seeping through their skin. Pear blossoms continued to fall from above, one landing precisely on their intertwined hands, like a token of love sent by nature.

“Do you know?” Sang Shuwan gazed at the gradually blue sky, watching the first star light up, “I used to think that happiness needed to be hidden in secret, but now I understand that the warmest secret is that when you are by my side, even the sunlight smells sweet.” Jiang Cimu turned his head and saw the reflection of thousands of lights in her eyes, more dazzling than the gilding on any costume.

That night, the swaying of the hammock mingled with "Breaking the Mold" snoring, drifting gently in the spring evening breeze. Sang Shuwan rested her head on Jiang Cimu's arm, smelling the scent of cedar and pear blossoms on his body, and suddenly understood that the so-called Changming Xiaozhu was never in the play, but on this sun-drenched lawn, in the fingertips that brushed away the petals for her, in the daily life they wove together, without secret codes but full of love.

Afternoon tea in the glass conservatory always carries the weight of sunlight. Sang Shuwan pushed the last piece of lemon pound cake in front of Jiang Cimu, watching him fork it up. As he did so, the silver ring cast the shadow of half a lotus flower in the plum juice in the glass jar—these were the matching rings they had found in an ancient town in Suzhou. His ring had a missing petal, hers a complete half, together forming a flower blooming on her ring finger. Suddenly, "Breakthrough" emerged from under the wicker chair, its wet nose brushing against Sang Shuwan's ankle, a plush toy embroidered with "Eternal Light" dangling from its mouth. She smiled and took the toy, noticing the stitching on its belly had come undone again. She pulled a mini sewing kit from her apron pocket—the one Jiang Cimu had stuffed into her makeup bag last year, saying, "Just in case your Breakthrough dog needs mending."

“Last week at the pet park,” Jiang Cimu handed her a mint and lime drink, the clinking of ice cubes mingling with the sound of the wind outside the greenhouse, “the owner of that Border Collie named ‘Breakthrough’ said his dog’s name comes from the character ‘Breakthrough General’ in the novel *The Legend of Changming*.” His fingertip traced the torn lotus sticker on her notebook. “In the end, our ‘Breakthrough’ is chasing after him, like a general chasing after his past life.” Sang Shuwan pricked her fingertip with a needle, a drop of blood seeping into the cotton thread of her plush toy, like adding a small red plum blossom to “Changming.” She suddenly remembered three years ago on set, when Jiang Cimu played the Breakthrough General, and she was the head screenwriter. At the wrap party, he drunkenly said, “Actually, breaking through doesn’t necessarily mean bloodshed. Like those coded messages you crossed out when revising the script, leaving a gap to let the light in is the true way to break through.”

As dusk crept into the greenhouse, Jiang Cimu, clutching his "Gardening Handbook," tumbled into the hammock, causing Sang Shuwan's pages to rustle. She rested her head on his chest, listening to him recite pruning techniques for blue plumbago, her eyes fixed on the rhythm of his Adam's apple—a rhythm more reassuring than any script. "Let's move 'Changming's' nest to the greenhouse next week," she said, her fingertips brushing the grass clippings from his hoodie, "so it can keep us company while we stargaze, and stop him from constantly banging on the bedroom door in the middle of the night." As the borscht simmered in the kitchen, Sang Shuwan leaned against the doorframe watching him tie his apron. This time, the apron straps were tied in a pretty bow, but as he turned, they got caught on the oven doorknob, causing him to stumble and bump into her. "Looks like the imperfect perfection," she laughed, untying his apron, "still needs a few more practice sessions." He seized the opportunity to steal a kiss on her lips, tasting the lingering lemon frosting: "Anyway, with you here, even imperfections have a sweet touch."

The blue light from the projector flowed across the ceiling late at night. Sang Shuwan stared at the old movie on the screen, but couldn't help counting Jiang Cimu's eyelashes. He suddenly turned off the projector, pulled her into his arms, and pressed his palm against her shoulder blades. "The guesthouse owner said there's an abandoned garden deep in the pear blossom grove, with century-old mimosa trees growing at the base of the walls." He traced circles on her back with his fingertips. "Should we go pick some mimosa flowers to make a new home for Breakthrough?" The moonlight turned the plum juice jar on the windowsill into a translucent amber color. Sang Shuwan touched the small leaf-shaped birthmark on Jiang Cimu's collarbone and suddenly remembered what he said in the wrap-up special of "The Legend of Changming": "The real Breakthrough isn't about breaking anything, it's about planting a flower in the crack, so that the sunlight has a place to settle." At this moment, his breath was as light as falling pear blossoms, and she knew that they had already planted lotus flowers with missing corners in each other's cracks.

The spring breeze ruffled the pages of the journal. Sang Shuwan looked at Jiang Cimu's newly drawn cloud pattern—beside a crooked cotton candy, two dogs chasing butterflies, one named "Breakthrough" and the other "Eternal Light." She suddenly kissed the old scar on his wrist, a mark he'd made last year when he helped her move the flower stand: "Actually, the most wonderful 'Breakthrough'," she pointed to the missing lotus sticker on the paper, "is to let every day carry your warmth, like this cup of plum juice, sweet with a hint of sourness, yet so precious that you can't bear to swallow it." Jiang Cimu smiled and closed the journal, his fingertips brushing against the silver ring on her ring finger: "Then let's live our lives like a missing lotus," he gazed at Breakthrough chasing dandelions outside the greenhouse, "leaving a crack in every petal, so that sunlight, starlight, and your smile can all leak in."

The plum juice in the glass jar condensed again, dripping down the jar's side and into the soil, nourishing the newly planted blue plumbago on the windowsill. Sang Shuwan leaned on Jiang Cimu's shoulder, listening to him hum his adapted version of the theme song from "Changming." The tune was terribly off-key, yet it was more moving than any original soundtrack—because it was their own unique breaking song, composing the most perfect poem in every flawed daily life.

At the pet pool on the weekend, "Breakthrough" barked wildly at the rubber duck on the float, its tail splashing water everywhere. Jiang Cimu, wearing blue swimming trunks, squatted by the pool, holding up the dog's favorite freeze-dried chicken: "Breakthrough, come here!" The golden retriever suddenly turned around, splashing water all over Sang Shuwan's sun-protective shirt, making the surrounding owners laugh. "This isn't Breakthrough, it's clearly 'Demolition'," Sang Shuwan wrung out her wet clothes, watching Jiang Cimu being dragged into the pool by the dog. The "Breakthrough General," dressed in a suit, was now soaked to the bone, but still held onto the freeze-dried chicken. He shook the water off his hair and suddenly splashed water at her: "Was the scene of the general falling into the water that you wrote back then based on me?"

Under the parasol by the pool, Sang Shuwan flipped through her notebook and discovered a cartoon Jiang Cimu had secretly drawn last night: "Breaking the Game," wearing a swimming cap, riding a rubber duck and sailing through the waves, with the caption "March 16, 2024, this general conquers the pool today!" She suddenly remembered when he first read her script, he wrote in red pen next to the "general drowning" scene: "I suggest adding a kissing scene, the kind where he performs CPR after drowning." Back then, he always liked to express his concern in this clumsy way, just like now, even though he was soaking wet, he would first make sure she hadn't been splashed with water.

On the lawn at dusk, Jiang Cimu frowned, staring at the doghouse assembly diagram, nearly pricking his finger with the screwdriver. Sang Shuwan handed him a chilled plum drink, noticing the fine beads of sweat on his nose and the words "Cornered Engineer" printed on his T-shirt—a birthday gift she'd given him last year, embroidered with half a lotus flower on the back. "We should fix the support frame here first," she said, pointing to the misaligned corner on the diagram, suddenly remembering how he'd studied carpentry for three months to prepare for his role as a general attacking a city in "The Legend of Changming." Now, however, his hand holding the screwdriver trembled, making him look more like he was defusing a bomb than assembling a doghouse. "Pojie," perched nearby, tilted its head, its tail sweeping over the scattered wood shavings, then suddenly grabbed a piece of wood and ran off.

"Come back!" Jiang Cimu chased the dog across the lawn, their shadows stretched long in the moonlight. Sang Shuwan watched them circling under the pear tree, suddenly finding the scene more moving than any movie shot—no wire work, no special effects, just genuine laughter and the dog's joyful barking. When the doghouse was finally assembled, "Broken Game" lay down at her feet in disgust, preferring to sleep in a hammock rather than enter the new house. Jiang Cimu pretended to be angry, hands on his hips: "You Broken Game General, why are you complaining about your own tent?" The dog rubbed its wet nose against his palm, instantly dispelling his "anger."

In the hammock late at night, Sang Shuwan leaned on Jiang Cimu's shoulder, watching him draw constellations in the sky with a flashlight. "That's 'Breakthrough Constellation'," he pointed to the Big Dipper, "The handle is our dog, chasing that 'Eternal Duck'." She laughed and poked his ribs, watching the flashlight beam flicker across the pear tree, casting shimmering shadows on the petals. The journal lay open on her lap, the latest page showing a photo of the pet pool: Jiang Cimu, soaking wet, held up a freeze-dried toy, "Breakthrough's" paw pressed against his face. Next to it was written in his handwriting: "Today I understand, breaking through isn't about conquering the pool, it's about being conquered by the dog." Sang Shuwan suddenly flipped to the page about the proposal and found a new note he had pasted: "In the lotus with a missing corner, lies the pear blossom that fell into my eyes when you said 'I do'."

“Do you know?” She gazed at the starry sky above, suddenly recalling a line from the script, “The scabbard of the Everlasting Sword is engraved with a lotus flower with a missing corner, because true light never needs to be perfect.” Jiang Cimu lowered his head to kiss the top of her head, smelling the faint scent of pear blossom perfume: “That’s why our little abode is called ‘Everlasting,’ because in every missing corner lives our light.” This sentence reminded Sang Shuwan of the day he proposed three years ago. He squatted under the pear tree, his suit trousers covered in petals, and tucked into his open notebook was the train ticket from their first date. The lotus flower with a missing corner that she had drawn on the ticket stub was now lying quietly in the drawer, next to the ring box.

The spring downpour came suddenly. Sang Shuwan was curled up on the sofa revising her script, while Jiang Cimu sat beside her, holding "Breaking the Game," watching her frown at the computer screen. "The scene where the general has an epiphany in the rainy night," she said, biting her pen, "feels like something's missing." He suddenly took her pen and drew a dog wearing a straw hat on the edge of the script, writing next to it: "Have the dog of the Breaking the Game General bring the key prop, like half a lotus jade pendant." Sang Shuwan looked at the crooked doodle and suddenly laughed out loud—this was exactly the detail she had been looking for, not a grand scene, but a small, lifelike episode.

“You’re a better writer than me, the screenwriter.” She ruffled his hair, watching as “Broken End” took the opportunity to lick his chin. Jiang Cimu grabbed her hand and drew a missing-corner lotus flower in her palm: “Do you remember our first argument?” He suddenly brought up something from half a year ago, “You blamed me for making your script too sentimental, so I folded ninety-nine paper lotus flowers overnight, each missing a corner, saying ‘imperfection is reality.’” Sang Shuwan certainly remembered; those paper lotus flowers were still in glass jars, displayed on the bookshelf in her study, like a small museum of missing-corner lotus flowers.

The kitchen was filled with the aroma of ginger tea on this rainy night. Jiang Cimu had brewed a warm drink to ward off the chill. Sang Shuwan stared at his back as he tied his apron—this time, the apron straps weren't knotted, but hung casually behind him. "Actually, life is like your script," he said, turning around with his teacup in hand. "It doesn't need every plot to be perfect. A little leak, a stumble—that's what makes it more interesting." Sang Shuwan took the teacup, the steam warming her eyes. She suddenly remembered what he had said: on the day he married her, he felt like a true game-changer, not because he had defeated anything, but because he had finally found his place in her world.

At the weekend market, Sang Shuwan found a gardening manual from the 1980s at a used bookstore. The illustration of blue plumbago on the cover reminded her of the plant in the greenhouse that had been gnawed bare by a vine. Jiang Cimu, on the other hand, picked out a chipped wooden plate at a nearby woodworking stall, saying it could be used to hold her pound cake. "This chip looks like a little lotus flower," he pointed to the edge of the plate, "and it echoes our rings perfectly." The stall owner, an elderly woman, smiled, her face full of wrinkles: "When we were young, my husband and I also loved collecting things with chipped edges. Now that I think about it, chipped edges are the marks of time."

On the way back, "Breaking the Mold" dozed off on Sang Shuwan's lap, a wooden tray and old books on the back seat. Jiang Cimu drove, occasionally reaching out to smooth her wind-blown hair. The setting sun bathed his profile in a warm gold, and Sang Shuwan suddenly realized that "Breaking the Mold" was simply a slow understanding over time that what she once thought were regrets and gaps were actually entrances to happiness left by fate—like the chipped corner on his ring, which perfectly fit into her completeness, like their life, filled with imperfect trivialities, yet radiating just the right amount of warmth.

Late at night, Sang Shuwan posted a photo of the market in her journal: Jiang Cimu, holding a chipped wooden plate, smiled with laugh lines showing, her "broken" paw resting on an old book, a newly picked pear blossom tucked between the pages. She wrote: "The old lady I met today said that a chipped corner is a kiss mark of time. It turns out that we have already been kissed by life countless times, and in every seemingly imperfect moment, the most touching perfection is hidden." Jiang Cimu leaned over and drew two little figures holding hands below the text, with a dog carrying a lotus flower beside them, and a virtual cake in the chipped wooden plate.

One early spring morning, Sang Shuwan discovered that the blue plumbago had sprouted new buds in the greenhouse. Tender green leaves emerged from the bitten edges, like stubborn scars. Jiang Cimu squatted beside her, taking pictures and calling it a "rebirth through disruption." Sunlight streamed through the glass, casting dappled patterns on the new buds. Sang Shuwan suddenly recalled the ending of "The Legend of Changming"—the General of Disruption retired from the battlefield, planting his courtyard full of lotus flowers with broken corners. From then on, the sword fights in the story transformed into the mundane realities of daily life.

She watched Jiang Cimu brushing the dog's fur, patiently untangling the knots in "Breakthrough's" fur, and suddenly understood that true breakthroughs are never a single earth-shattering moment, but rather countless everyday moments like these: him wiping the sauce from her nose, her mending the stitches of his doll, them revising scripts together on rainy nights, searching for chipped wooden plates at the market, watching blue plumbago bloom anew from its scars. These trivial, imperfect moments ultimately wove together a life more moving than any script—no power struggles, no secret codes, only sunshine, the aroma of soup, the dog's purring, and the warmth of those around them.

As dusk crept into the greenhouse once more, Jiang Cimu cooked a new bowl of borscht, while Sang Shuwan arranged the chipped wooden plate she had found at the market. "Poji" lay at her feet, its tail swishing rhythmically across the floor. Suddenly, Sang Shuwan lifted the plate, holding the chipped end up to the light, watching as the light cast the shape of half a lotus flower on the wall. Jiang Cimu's silver ring perfectly filled the gap, forming a complete, glowing flower.

“Look,” she pointed to the play of light and shadow on the wall, “the imperfect perfection has always been there.” Jiang Cimu followed her gaze and suddenly smiled—the lotus flower in the play of light and shadow was just like the one she had drawn on their train ticket during their first date, imperfect yet possessing a unique gentleness. And now, in this flower room filled with the warmth of life, amidst the purring of the dog and the aroma of soup, they finally understood that breaking through a deadlock is simply learning to see the light in the imperfection, to find love in the ordinary, and to make each day an unrepeatable, warm poem.

On a clear morning during the rainy season, Sang Shuwan discovered a ladybug clinging to a new bud of blue plumbago in the greenhouse. Its red shell with black spots resembled a moving, fragmented flower petal. She crouched down to take a picture, but the golden retriever's head suddenly appeared in the frame, startling the ladybug away. The dog's warm, moist breath brushed against her wrist. "Little rascal," she chuckled, ruffling its ears. She watched as Jiang Cimu walked in carrying a wooden box filled with newly harvested sour plums—the second batch sent by Brother Wei, greenish-yellow, carrying the fragrance of the mountains.