After I died, they cried in the live studio

Chapter 174 The Queen of Acting
"Making plum wine this afternoon?" Jiang Cimu shook the box, the clinking of the metal clasp startling a sparrow in the corner of the greenhouse. Sang Shuwan nodded, her gaze falling on the wrinkles on his T-shirt—the marks left from sleeping on the sofa last night while he was revising her script. "Let's make half a jar first," she pointed to the glass jar on the windowsill, "and the rest will be pickled into crisp plums for you to take to filming." Mentioning the new film, Jiang Cimu's expression suddenly became serious: "This time I'm playing a gardener, and there's a scene in the script where we argue in the greenhouse. The director said he wanted it to feel realistic."

"Do you need me to help you with the scene?" Sang Shuwan handed him an apron, deliberately showing the missing lotus embroidery as he tied it. He suddenly leaned closer, his nose almost touching hers: "How about we have a fight now? For example... you blame me for putting 'Breakthrough Gardener's' doghouse next to the blue plumbago, causing the plant to be chewed bare." She couldn't help but laugh, remembering that the dog had indeed bitten the newly sprouted buds to pieces last week: "Then I'll have to put on a good show, after all, the reputation of 'Breakthrough Gardener' is all thanks to this blue plumbago."

In the afternoon at the plum wine workshop, glass jars gleamed amber in the sunlight. Sang Shuwan used a toothpick to remove the plum stems, watching Jiang Cimu add rock sugar to the bottom of the jar. Suddenly, she remembered three years ago on set, when he secretly put rose petals in her thermos, saying, "Screenwriters need the nourishment of romance." "This wine," she pointed to the plums floating in the jar, "is for autumn, to accompany your new drama's wrap party." He suddenly grasped her sugar-coated hand and drew circles in her palm: "Why don't we hold the wrap party in our greenhouse, and show the crew what a true gardener is like?"

On a drizzly night, Sang Shuwan was revising the stage play script for "The Legend of Changming" in her study. Jiang Cimu, curled up on the beanbag chair next to her, watched her frown at the computer screen. "The scenes between the general and the strategist," she said, biting her pen, "feel like they're lacking some lifelike details." He suddenly sat up straight, the dog sliding off his lap and wagging its tail as it chewed on his slippers: "How about having the strategist present the general with a pot of lotus flowers with a broken corner, saying, 'True strategy is leaving a crack for the enemy, letting him walk in on his own.'"

The suggestion caught Sang Shuwan's eye, and she immediately sketched on the edge of the script: a potted lotus with a missing corner placed on the general's desk, the gap in the petals facing the moonlight outside the window. "You're so clever," she laughed, flicking his forehead, "it's a shame you're not a screenwriter." Jiang Cimu grabbed her hand and kissed the plum wine scent on her fingertips: "I'll be your personal strategist, to break the deadlocks in life, like—" he pointed to the chewed-up slippers on the floor, "to break the 'demolition' trap of 'breaking the deadlock'."

The weekend camping plans were canceled due to the torrential rain, so the two huddled in the living room doing a jigsaw puzzle. The puzzle was a Chinese ink painting of a lotus flower with a missing corner. "Broken Machine" was dozing on the puzzle box, its paw pressing down on half a petal, as if it had deliberately left a gap. Jiang Cimu suddenly pointed to the unfinished part: "Doesn't this blank space look like the broken bridge we saw in the ancient town last year?" Sang Shuwan looked in the direction he was pointing, and the blank space formed a curved line, making the lotus flower appear even more lifelike.

“The broken bridge reflects the moon,” she recalled the scene. A stone slab bridge was missing a brick, and moonlight shone through the gap onto the river. “You said that imperfection is the imperfection of heaven and earth, which gives beauty a sense of breath.” He suddenly put down the puzzle, took out the dried pear blossoms from the drawer where he proposed, and although the petals had faded, they still maintained their falling posture: “Actually, the most wonderful imperfection is to accept the imperfection of life, like this flower, although withered, it will forever remain in the spring when I knelt on one knee.”

On a sweltering July afternoon, Sang Shuwan was giving "Poju" a bath in the greenhouse. As the dog thrashed about, water droplets splashed onto the newly opened jasmine blossoms. Jiang Cimu snapped a photo, capturing Sang Shuwan's white shirt, soaked and clinging to her back, outlining the shape of her shoulder blades, while "Poju's" tail brushed against her bare ankles. "This photo could be sent to *Home & Style*," he said, waving his camera. "The title would be 'Poju General's Daily Life: A Gardener Dancing with His Dog.'"

The laughter coming from the bathroom startled the sparrows on the windowsill. Sang Shuwan chased after him to delete the photos, but froze when she saw the preview image—in the picture, she was wiping her dog with her head down, sunlight streaming in through the greenhouse glass, gilding the ends of her hair, and "Po Ju" was looking up at her with eyes full of dependence and intimacy. "Actually, it looks pretty good," she said, blushing and turning her head away, "just don't let the crew see it, lest they laugh at you for being so engrossed in family life."

Jiang Cimu suddenly put down his camera and grasped her still-dripping hand: "Rather than acting out other people's stories, I'd rather film our lives as a documentary." He pointed to the train tickets, flower petals, and dog paw prints pasted all over his notebook, "These everyday moments, with their missing pieces, are more moving than any script, because every page is written with 'us'." Sang Shuwan looked at her reflection in his eyes and suddenly remembered what he had said during the promotion of "The Legend of Changming": "The best way to break the deadlock is to let the audience see their own shadow in the story." And at this moment, their lives were the best footnote to that statement.

At the market in late summer, Sang Shuwan found a tablecloth with a missing corner of a lotus flower pattern at a fabric stall. The beige background was embroidered with dark green lotus petals, and each piece had unfinished threads deliberately left. "Just like our lives," she said, touching the rough stitches, "seemingly incomplete, yet full of the warmth of handmade craftsmanship." Jiang Cimu bought the tablecloth, and the stall owner gave her a cloth dog toy embroidered with the words "Changming" (meaning "eternal brightness"), which perfectly matched the "Breaking the Stalemate" (meaning "breaking the deadlock") plush toy.

On their way home, they met an old man selling sugar paintings at the alley entrance. Jiang Cimu insisted on buying Sang Shuwan a lotus-shaped sugar painting, but accidentally chipped a petal when he took it. "It's alright," Sang Shuwan licked the sweet syrup, "A lotus with a missing piece is our special one." The old man smiled and nodded, "The girl is right. Perfection is for the moon. Our mortal lives are more interesting with a little imperfection."

One early autumn morning, Sang Shuwan discovered a delightful surprise in her blue plumbago bonsai—the first complete flower had bloomed on the branch that had been gnawed bare by the "Breakthrough" plant. The five petals were outstretched, one of which had a light brown scar on its edge, but it did not detract from its beauty at all. "A Breakthrough Bloom," Jiang Cimu said, holding up his camera to record the scene. "Our blue plumbago has finally learned to bloom on its wounds."

He suddenly turned off the camera and looked at her earnestly: "You know what? This blue plumbago reminds me of how you revise scripts. Every time the director rejected it, you would say, 'It's okay, just write it from a different angle. The gap is the entrance to the story.'" Sang Shuwan touched the scars on the petals and suddenly understood that life and creation are always connected. Those setbacks and regrets that she once thought she had will eventually become unique marks, making beauty more meaningful.

On a rainy autumn night, Sang Shuwan nestled in Jiang Cimu's arms watching an old movie. "Breaking the Game" lay between them, its tail occasionally brushing against the remote control. The male and female protagonists on the screen were breaking up in the rain, but she stared at the old scar on Jiang Cimu's wrist—a mark left from when he slipped and fell while shoveling snow for her last winter. "Actually," she suddenly said, "the real breaking the game isn't about defeating the enemy, but about seeing the tenderness of time in each other's scars."

He lowered his head and kissed the top of her head, smelling the scent of shampoo mixed with plum wine: "So every corner of our little abode has a scar: the crack in the greenhouse glass was caused by the 'breakthrough'; the chipped corner on the wooden table was caused when I was assembling the doghouse; and the coffee stain in your notebook was left when I knocked over the cup." Sang Shuwan nodded with a smile. These imperfect marks were, at this moment, gifts from life in her eyes.

The winter solstice sunlight was weak. Sang Shuwan was simmering pear soup in the kitchen, while Jiang Cimu was wrapping blue plumbago in insulating film in the greenhouse. "Breaking the Mold" squatted by the door, watching its owner bustling about. Suddenly, it brought over the cloth doll embroidered with "Eternal Light" and placed it at Sang Shuwan's feet. She bent down to pick up the doll and found that the bloodstains on its belly had long since faded, but a light brown mark remained, like a small plum blossom that would forever bloom.

“A letter from Brother Wei,” Jiang Cimu walked in, holding a kraft paper envelope, “saying the jujube flowers in the Northwest are blooming and he wants to send us jujube honey.” Sang Shuwan opened the letter, and a photo fell out: in a vast jujube forest, a tree's branch naturally grew into the shape of a half-flowered lotus, sunlight filtering through the branches and casting a half-flowered shadow on the ground. “So even heaven and earth understand how to break the deadlock,” she said softly, “using a missing piece to write eternity.”

As the New Year's bells rang, the two released Kongming lanterns in the greenhouse. The lanterns were decorated with a lotus flower with a missing corner and the words "Eternal Brightness" written in the center. "Breaking the Mold" excitedly spun around, its tail sweeping off the notebook on the table. The latest page had a photo of a blooming blue plumbago pasted on it, with Jiang Cimu's handwriting next to it: "December 31, 2024, our blue plumbago has learned to dance on its scars, just as we have learned to embrace completeness in our imperfections."

As the Kongming lanterns gradually rose into the sky, merging into the starry expanse, Sang Shuwan gazed at the lotus flower with a missing corner in the lantern's shadow and suddenly recalled the scene of her first encounter with Jiang Cimu: He stood outside the film crew's tent, holding the script she had written in his hand, his sleeve stained with blue paint from who-knows-where, and said with a smile, "Your words contain a missing corner of light, which makes me want to come closer and take a look."

At this moment, condensation formed on the glass of the greenhouse. "Breaking the Mold" dozed at her feet, Jiang Cimu's warm hand resting on the back of hers. In the distance, Kongming lanterns, carrying their wishes, flew into the night sky studded with stars. Sang Shuwan suddenly understood that breaking the mold was never about finding perfection, but about standing side by side with loved ones in every day with its imperfections, turning ordinary moments into the most moving poems—like that blue plumbago, like their lotus flower with its missing piece, like this warm and ever-burning little house, forever blooming with imperfect completeness amidst the storms of time.

When spring came again, Sang Shuwan wrote a new chapter in her journal, accompanied by a new photo taken by Jiang Cimu: she leaned against a pear tree, "Po Ju" lay on her lap, and Jiang Cimu squatted beside her, his fingertips gently touching her slightly protruding belly—there, their little "Po Ju" was being conceived, a new life about to join the story of the missing lotus.

“The doctor said,” she touched her belly, seeing tears welling up in his eyes, “that the baby’s birthmark looks like a little lotus flower.” Jiang Cimu lowered his head and kissed her lower abdomen, his voice trembling, “Is it missing a corner?” Sang Shuwan smiled and shook her head, but secretly wiped away a tear from an angle he couldn’t see—whether it’s missing a corner or a perfect one, this child will learn to see his own light in the cracks of life in the loving Changming Xiaozhu.

Blue plumbago leaves unfurled in the spring breeze, "Breaking the Mold" chased butterflies across the lawn, Jiang Cimu hummed the off-key theme song of "Eternal Light," and Sang Shuwan, using the delicate stitch of a lotus flower with missing corners, embroidered the first swaddling clothes for her unborn child. Sunlight streamed through the greenhouse glass, casting dappled golden spots on her hair, like countless kisses from life, falling on every moment where imperfection and perfection intertwined, ensuring that this story of breaking the mold and love would forever remain unfinished.

Changming Cottage: Daily Musings (Continued)
On the spring equinox, Sang Shuwan was dozing in a wicker rocking chair in the greenhouse when the little life inside her suddenly kicked her, startling a butterfly that had landed on a "Gardening Handbook." Jiang Cimu, who was squatting beside her pruning the blue plumbago, heard her soft cry and immediately put down the scissors, placing his hand on Sang Shuwan's lower abdomen through her maternity clothes: "Is our little impasse practicing marching?"

She laughed and slapped his hand away, noticing the newly customized "Future Gardener Dad" printed on his T-shirt, with the missing lotus flower still embroidered on the back. "The jujube honey Wei sent arrived," she said, pointing to the glass jar on the windowsill, a few jujubes floating in the amber-colored honey. "Let's make a jujube honey cake this afternoon, a prenatal dessert for the baby." Jiang Cimu suddenly leaned down and whispered to her belly, "Did you hear that? Your mom's stocking up on sweets for you again."

The nursery setup continued throughout the spring. Jiang Cimu insisted on assembling the crib himself, only to find a sticker of a missing lotus flower on the instruction manual—Sang Shuwan had secretly put it there. "This part should be reinforced," she pointed to the joint of the crib railing, "just like our missing corner. It looks like a hole, but it's actually for a more flexible connection." He suddenly took her hand and placed it on his chest: "You know what? Ever since I found out you were pregnant, I've been thinking that breaking through a crisis isn't just a one-person job, it's about two people becoming three, or even more."

"Breaking the Mold" grew increasingly curious about the nursery, often carrying its stuffed animal "Changming" into the crib as if giving its little master a gift. Looking at the dog's earnest expression, Sang Shuwan suddenly recalled the scene in "The Legend of Changming" where the general's mount always gave its mane to the newborn general. It turned out that tenderness across time was similar.

During a prenatal class at the Grain Rain season, Jiang Cimu frowned as he studied the breathing techniques, drawing a half-open lotus flower on Sang Shuwan's hand with his fingers to ease her tension. "Imagine the petals unfolding as you inhale," he whispered, "and imagine the gap being filled by sunlight as you exhale." The young couple next to them smiled, saying that the parents had turned prenatal education into poetry.

On the way home, Sang Shuwan touched the missing-corner lotus swaddle blanket given to her by the baby store and suddenly said, "If it's a girl, let's call her 'Changming,' like that flower that blooms forever in the missing corner." Jiang Cimu shook his head, "How about 'Pojian,' coming into the world with a flaw, but possessing the courage to break through." The two looked at each other and smiled, knowing that no matter what the name was, this child would grow up in love and the wisdom of imperfection.

On the evening of the Beginning of Summer, Sang Shuwan was making jujube honey in the kitchen, while Jiang Cimu hung a handmade wind chime in the nursery. The seashells and wooden pieces made a soft, tinkling sound. One of the wooden pieces was carved with a lotus flower with a missing corner, which he had carved from the pear wood he had used when he proposed. "Po Jie" lay at the door, its tail sweeping across the floor, and suddenly let out a low bark at the wind chime—it was probably confirming whether these new objects would threaten its "family status."

“The dog seems jealous.” Sang Shuwan smiled and handed over a piece of freeze-dried chicken. Seeing “Breakthrough” wag its tail immediately, “When the baby is born, you’ll be the big brother. You have to protect her.” The golden retriever seemed to understand and rested its head on her pregnant belly. Its warm breath seeped through her clothes, making her eyes suddenly well up with tears—this furry family member had long been an indispensable force in her life.

On the last weekend before her delivery, the two set up a makeshift tent in the greenhouse and lay in a hammock watching the stars. Jiang Cimu's hand was always behind her back, afraid that she would bump her head when she turned over. "Do you remember our first camping trip?" he suddenly said, recalling something from five years ago. "We encountered a downpour on the mountaintop, and the tent was leaking, but you laughed and said, 'The rainwater flowing through the gaps in the tent is the path for the stars to fall in.'"

Looking up at the starry sky, Sang Shuwan recalled that night when she was soaked to the bone but still felt romantic. Suddenly, she realized that the upcoming childbirth was another way of breaking through the impasse—passing through the gap of pain to welcome new life, just like blue snowflakes blooming on scars, just like them embracing completeness in the missing piece.

On the morning before her due date, Sang Shuwan found a gift brought by "Poji" to the crib: its favorite plush toy "Changming," the bloodstains on its belly long since faded, now neatly placed on the small blanket. She stroked the dog's ears and whispered, "Thank you, General Poji, you are always the first warrior to welcome the new member."

When the contractions came, Jiang Cimu's hands were surprisingly steady. He helped her breathe according to the steps in the prenatal class. In his pocket was her journal, the latest page of which had a picture of blue plumbago in full bloom, with the words: "May 10, 2025, our moment of breakthrough is coming soon."

In the waiting area outside the delivery room, "Breaking the Mold" lay quietly at Jiang Cimu's feet, its tail rhythmically swishing across the floor, as if cheering on Sang Shuwan inside the delivery room. When the baby's cry rang out, Jiang Cimu heard the nurse say, "It's a little princess, with a small lotus-shaped birthmark on her ankle."

He entered the delivery room and saw Sang Shuwan with sweat on her face but a bright smile on her face. The baby in her arms was waving its little hands, and the birthmark on its ankle really did look like a lotus flower with a missing corner. "Look," she said softly, "Heaven and earth have given us the most perfect imperfection."

On the day of discharge, Sang Shuwan put a baby hat with a missing lotus flower embroidery that she had embroidered herself on her daughter. Jiang Cimu held the baby and suddenly realized that her eyes looked exactly like Sang Shuwan's, and the curve of her mouth when she smiled looked exactly like his own. "Breaking the Mold" greeted them at the door, circling the stroller, but with unusual gentleness, as if it knew that this little life was the new game-changer for their family.

Back at Changming Xiaozhu, Sang Shuwan placed her daughter's swaddling clothes next to Lan Xuehua, watching the sunlight stream through the window frame adorned with a lotus flower with a missing corner, casting dappled shadows on the baby's face. Jiang Cimu sat beside her, his notebook open on his lap, a new page reading: "May 12, 2025, the moment of breakthrough—Little Breakthrough arrives with the lotus flower with a missing corner, giving our story a new, crying game-changer."

In the flower room late at night, Sang Shuwan breastfed her daughter, while "Poju" dozed off at her feet. Jiang Cimu gently covered them with a blanket. In the moonlight, the baby's birthmark glowed with a faint pink, like a lotus flower with a missing corner in bloom. She suddenly remembered Wei Ge's words in his letter: "When the jujube flower takes root in the Gobi Desert, it always leaves a crack for rainwater to seep in, just like life, it always needs a few missing corners so that love can flow in." Yes, love is never a perfect fairy tale, but rather the courage and tenderness that grows in the imperfections. Just like their Changming Xiaozhu, it is full of imperfect details: the blue plumbago that "Poju" has chewed off, Jiang Cimu's apron that he can never tie properly, the missing corner sticker on the crib railing, and the birthmark on her daughter's ankle—these seemingly flawed existences are precisely the most touching marks of life.

As the morning mist dissipated, Sang Shuwan watched her husband play with their daughter, the dog wagging its tail beside them. Suddenly, she understood that the true meaning of breaking the deadlock wasn't about destroying anything, but about learning to reconcile with imperfection in the long river of time, allowing every imperfection to become an entrance to light. And their story will continue to write new chapters amidst the cries of this little life—a story about love, about growth, about the everlasting flower blooming in the imperfections.

Blue snowflakes swayed gently in the spring breeze, dewdrops on their petals refracting a rainbow of colors, much like the future of this family, full of unknowns and expectations. Sang Shuwan held her daughter, watching Jiang Cimu paste new photos in a journal on the nursery wall: three hands intertwined, with a "broken" paw print in the middle, and the background of a lotus flower with a missing corner, its light and shadow intertwined.

She suddenly chuckled. It turned out that the most beautiful breakthrough had already been achieved in these everyday trivialities—when they learned to see completeness in imperfections and plant hope in cracks, life became the most moving poem. And they, with this wisdom, would continue to weave their own everlasting dream of a lotus flower with imperfections in Changming Xiaozhu.

The late autumn sunlight slanted into the greenhouse. Sang Shuwan sat in a rocking chair knitting a sweater for her daughter, the stitches concealing tiny, sparse lotus flower patterns. Ten-month-old Pojian lay on the playmat, trying to grab Poji's wagging tail, while the golden retriever looked at its owner with a helpless expression, as if to say, "Where has General Poji's majesty gone?"

“It’s time to wean the baby.” Jiang Cimu walked over with a cup of hot cocoa. Seeing the yarn stuck to Sang Shuwan’s sleeve, he suddenly remembered the nights during her pregnancy when she would lie on his chest listening to the baby’s heartbeat. He squatted down and rubbed his nose against his daughter’s chubby little face, which earned him a sweet, childish “Daddy,” instantly bringing tears to his eyes—this composed “General Who Breaks the Game” in front of the camera was, at this moment, just an ordinary father melted by his daughter.

The wind chimes hanging above the crib tinkled softly, and the pear wood piece carved with a missing lotus flower spun in the breeze, casting dappled shadows. Sang Shuwan gazed at the birthmark on her daughter's ankle, recalling the nurse's exclamation on the day of delivery: "This birthmark is truly special, like an unfinished lotus flower." She suddenly understood that some imperfections are gifts from birth, like the birthmark that marks the breaking of a cocoon, or the imperfections in their marriage—all carefully left footnotes by fate.

"A letter from Brother Wei." Jiang Cimu handed over a kraft paper envelope. The attached photo showed a bountiful harvest in the jujube forests of Northwest China. Hongliu Niangzi stood under an old, lotus-shaped tree with a missing corner, holding freshly picked jujubes, with a sea of ​​golden leaves behind her. The letter ended with: "The jujube honey for Xiaopo has been jarred. May she, like the jujube flower, grow a resilient beauty even in her imperfections."

The afternoon sun was shining brightly. Sang Shuwan pushed the stroller to the yard to bask in the sun. "Po Ju" took the initiative to act as her guard, walking beside the stroller and glancing back every now and then. Jiang Cimu was building a new flower stand for Lan Xuehua. When he saw his wife and daughter coming, he immediately put down his tools and gently brushed Sang Shuwan's wind-blown hair—a gesture that reminded him of when they first met, when he brushed the snowflakes off her shoulders on the film set.

"Daddy, hug me!" Breaking Free opened her arms wide, her chubby little hands waving in the air. Jiang Cimu carefully picked up his daughter, watching her fingertips clutch his collar, the silver ring of the missing lotus flower gleaming in the sunlight. Sang Shuwan suddenly noticed that her daughter's eyes reflected two small figures: one was her father holding her, the other her mother pushing the stroller, and in the middle was "Breaking Free," wagging her tail, forming a flowing picture of a missing lotus flower.

As dusk settled into the greenhouse, Sang Shuwan was brewing jujube and honey tea in the kitchen, while Jiang Cimu was reading a picture book to Pojian in the nursery. She deliberately changed the story of "The Breaking General" to "The Breaking Princess"—in a castle with a missing lotus flower, the princess, accompanied by her golden retriever knight, planted flowers of hope in every crack. "And then?" Pojian asked vaguely, biting her pacifier. "Did the princess find the light?"

“Found it,” Jiang Cimu kissed her forehead. “The light is in every missing corner, as long as you’re willing to wait.”

In the hammock late at night, Sang Shuwan leaned against Jiang Cimu, watching him record his daughter's first steps in his journal. "Her wobbly way of wobbling," he wrote with a smile, "is just like my clumsy attempt at assembling a doghouse back then, yet it carries the courage to break through." Sang Shuwan touched the old scar on his wrist, recalling how she fell down today, getting up on her own without crying or fussing, her little face covered in grass clippings, yet smiling brightly—it turns out that the gene for breaking through had already been passed down in her blood.

“You said,” she gazed at the starry sky above, “could the birthmark that broke through the cocoon be the reincarnation of the Everlasting Sword?” Jiang Cimu chuckled, his fingertips brushing against the silver ring on her ring finger: “Whatever it is, she is our little game-changer, coming with a flaw, yet making our world more complete.”

Spring comes and autumn goes, and every year the blue plumbago of Changming Pavilion blooms new flowers on the scars. The "Breaking the Mold" doll "Changming," though patched upon patched, is still the cocoon's favorite toy. Sang Shuwan's journal has long been filled with three volumes, each page pasted with fragments of life: her daughter's first milk tooth, Jiang Cimu's finally tied apron, the photo of "Breaking the Mold" guarding the stroller, and that dried pear blossom that is always tucked between the pages of the marriage proposal.

One rainy afternoon, Sang Shuwan was organizing the revised edition of "The Legend of Changming" in her study when she discovered that Jiang Cimu had added a note at the end of the script: "The real breakthrough is not the hero's triumph, but hearing the sound of flowers blooming in the gaps of daily life." She looked out the window, and the cocoon was pulling the "breakthrough" rope, chasing after the falling pear blossoms in the rain. Jiang Cimu followed behind with an umbrella, his trouser legs quickly getting soaked.

Amidst the sound of raindrops tapping on the glass, Sang Shuwan suddenly understood that they had already lived out their own script—no dramatic power struggles, no thrilling coded messages, only tenderness with imperfections, weaving the most moving life in every ordinary day. And those imperfections they once thought were imperfections were actually gifts from fate, giving love a place to rest.

As the sound of laughter mingled with the rain, Sang Shuwan closed her script and walked towards the courtyard. Her husband and daughter were building a sandcastle in the shape of a lotus flower with a missing corner under the pear tree. "Breaking the Mold" was happily digging in the dirt beside them, splashing mud onto Jiang Cimu's white shirt, but it only made him laugh even more brightly.

Suddenly, sunlight pierced through the clouds, casting three shadows on the wet ground, with a dog wagging its tail in the center, forming an everlasting, imperfect lotus flower. Sang Shuwan knew that this story of breaking free from impasses and love would continue to grow and bloom in countless such everyday moments—like blue plumbago blossoms on a scar, like them embracing completeness within imperfection, like every moment at Changming Xiaozhu filled with imperfect, warm light.

After the rainy season, small, green pear trees sprouted fruit the size of green beans among the branches of Changming Xiaozhu. Pojian, perched by the second-floor French window, pressed her nose into the glass, leaving a round mark. Suddenly, she turned and screamed as she rushed down the spiral staircase: "Mommy! Baby pear tree is wearing a green hat!" Sang Shuwan put down the scrapbook she was working on and looked at the blue snowflake petals clinging to her daughter's braids—this child always loved to sneak into the garden in the early morning to collect the fallen petals into a bone china sugar jar, saying she would make a new cape for her doll "Changming".

Jiang Cimu looked up from his study and saw his wife squatting on the carpet, mending the rag doll with the missing wing for their daughter. Sunlight streamed through the high French windows, casting the shadow of a pear tree on the off-white sofa. The golden retriever, "Po Ju," was dozing on the woven rug, its tail occasionally brushing against the scattered dried blue plumbago flowers at its feet. They had moved into this villa with a courtyard last spring. Sang Shuwan had specially planted blue plumbago in the garden, saying she wanted to weave a "starlight barrier" that would bloom for her daughter's childhood—just like the characters she played on screen, always mending out gentle light from broken pieces.

"Sister Wan, the interview with Star Journey magazine is at 2 PM. The car is waiting at the South Gate." Assistant Xiao Zhou's voice came through the walkie-talkie, with just the right amount of restraint. Sang Shuwan responded, her fingertips tracing the photos that filled her notebook: there was a picture of Pojian sharing a chipped cookie with an autistic boy at kindergarten, a profile of Jiang Cimu writing lines for her new play at his desk, and a blue snowflake brooch that her daughter had glued on her dress last year when she won the Golden Harvest Award for "The Breaker".

"Mommy's going to work?" Pojian cuddled up to "Changming," the patches on the doll's wings gleaming in the sunlight. Sang Shuwan lowered her head and kissed the light brown birthmark at the base of her ring finger, like kissing a small pear petal: "How about Daddy helps you make wings for Changming this afternoon? Mommy will tell your 'Star with a Missing Piece' story to more children." The little girl nodded, seemingly understanding, then suddenly held the doll up to the French windows, letting the sunlight stream through the holes in the wings and cast dappled patterns on the wall: "Look! Changming is scattering stars!"

When Aunt Wang, the nanny, came out of the kitchen with a strawberry yogurt, Sang Shuwan was standing in the entryway changing her shoes. The collar of her silk shirt had slipped down, revealing a faint burn scar below her collarbone—left from filming a fire scene three years ago, which had now become a symbol of her "imperfect aesthetics." Fans know that this award-winning movie star always says in interviews, "Scars are the marks left by light."

As the van pulled into the underground parking garage, Sang Shuwan's phone popped up with a message from her agent: "The charity gala organizers want you to share your story of breaking free from the cocoon, about birthmarks and acceptance..." She looked out the car window at the green plants rushing by and remembered last month at the children's welfare home, when she shared the blue snowflake petals she had collected with a little girl with a cleft lip and palate, and said earnestly, "Your little cleft is like a moon boat, and I'll fill it with stars for you."

In the magazine's photoshoot studio, the photographer suggested shooting a series of "homey" photos. Sang Shuwan naturally picked up the "Changming" plush toy from the sofa, and the camera captured the detail of her fingertips caressing the patch—a gesture that had appeared in a public service advertisement she starred in, where the final shot was of the light spot shining through the missing corner of the plush toy, with the caption "Every life has a crack through which light can seep in."

"I heard your husband is working on a picture book called 'The Legend of Changming'?" As the reporter handed her the microphone, Sang Shuwan noticed a simple sketch of a missing wing on the other person's notebook. "Yes, the main character is a little girl with a patched wing." She recalled seeing Jiang Cimu drawing storyboards in his study last night, the edges of the paper densely covered with childlike words about breaking free from the cocoon: "Breaking the deadlock took away my petals, but more stars will grow from the soil."

Before wrapping up, the assistant handed over a stack of fan letters. The top one, with a blue plumbago sticker, was written by a girl with a burn: "After reading your interview, I dare to wear short sleeves now. Yesterday, I drew a wing with a missing corner on my scar, and my classmate said it looked like a birthmark that glows." Sang Shuwan suddenly remembered that in the villa garden, Pojian always liked to squat by the stone slab where she had scratched herself when planting blue plumbago, saying that "seeds of stars are hidden there."

As dusk settled over the villa, Sang Shuwan opened the door to hear Pojian's laughter. Jiang Cimu was holding a "Changming" plush toy, "flying" it under the starry sky ceiling in the children's room, while a golden retriever chased after the toy's tail in circles, sending her daughter's freshly dried blue snowflake petals flying everywhere. Upon seeing her, Pojian immediately rushed over, brandishing her newly sewn wings: "Mommy, look! Daddy sewed some glowing thread into the gap!"

Sang Shuwan took the doll and noticed that there were indeed a few strands of silver thread wrapped around the crooked stitches on the wing patch—those were the costume threads left over from when she filmed the period drama last year. Jiang Cimu wrapped his arms around her from behind, the old scar on his wrist brushing against her collarbone: "Pojian said that when Changming flies by like this, the stars will fall into the gaps."

Late at night, Sang Shuwan sat on the terrace processing work emails. Her phone's screen saver was a photo of her emerging from her cocoon and lying on a pear tree, her little belly pressed against the trunk, her fingertips pointing at the small, green pear calyx: "Mommy, this is the little pear's armor!" In the distance came the sound of Jiang Cimu reading a picture book to her daughter, mixed with the low barking of a golden retriever, flowing like a river of light on the wall adorned with blue snowflakes.

She suddenly remembered the script she received that morning. The new role was a single mother with a scar running across her cheekbone. Her agent said, "This role might affect your 'perfect goddess' image." But looking at the warm light shining from the children's room, Sang Shuwan wrote in her memo: "Perfection is not about having no flaws, but about daring to turn those flaws into entrances to light."

The wind swept across the blue snowflakes on the terrace, bringing with it a hazy, dreamlike murmur: "Eternal light...wings...stars..." Sang Shuwan turned off her computer and saw the moonlight filtering through the broken branches of the pear tree, creating fragmented yet gentle light spots on the villa's floor tiles—just like all the roles she had played, just like the life she was experiencing, where every seemingly imperfect crack always concealed a breathtaking, delicate light.

On a crisp autumn morning, the blue snowflakes of Changming Xiaozhu shimmered in the morning dew. Sang Shuwan stood before the mirror in the dressing room, letting the stylist style her hair. Her fingertips unconsciously caressed the cuff of her silk shirt—where a chipped blue snowflake was embroidered, a "peace charm" that Pojian had crookedly drawn with crayons on her lap the night before.

"Sister Wan, the car from the 'Rending Light' crew has arrived." Assistant Xiao Zhou came in carrying the script, her eyes sweeping over the costume hanging on the clothes rack: a gray-blue coarse cloth cheongsam with deliberately distressed wear marks at the collar, just enough to reveal a burn scar below the collarbone—this was the "character mark" that Sang Shuwan insisted on. She said that a true tragic heroine should not hide the gifts of fate.

At the entrance of the villa, Pojian was tiptoeing to tie the leash to "Pojie". Seeing her mother coming downstairs, she immediately ran over with the newly made cloth doll wings: "Mom, take Changming to the movie! It will protect your gap." Sang Shuwan took the cloth doll with silver thread sewn on it and found that there was a small diamond on the patch of the wing - it must have been cut off by her daughter from her old costume.

The film set was located in an abandoned textile factory. Sang Shuwan walked up the wooden stairs to the dressing room, the sound of her high heels echoing in the empty factory. On the dressing table sat a vase of blue snowflakes prepared by the crew, with a card that read: "Dedicated to you who can always embroider starlight into cracks—the entire cast and crew of 'Crack Light'." She suddenly remembered three years ago when she was filming "The Breaker," also in this late autumn. She was thrown over by the blast wave during an explosion scene, and the first thing she said when she woke up was, "Are my scars still there? Don't give me any skin smoothing."

“Ms. Sang, this scene is about the female lead discovering her deceased mother’s diary in the textile factory. You need to give a monologue in front of a cracked mirror.” The young assistant director handed her hot tea, his gaze involuntarily falling on the faint scar on her neck—that scar had been magnified countless times on camera, yet it gave her acting a palpable sense of pain.