After I died, they cried in the live studio

Chapter 175 The Queen's Performance 2
The door to the dressing room was gently pushed open, and the makeup artist came in carrying a special effects makeup palette: "As per your request, we will only enhance the existing scars and not do any additional concealer." Sang Shuwan blinked at the mirror, and the reflection in the mirror overlapped with the character: Fang Min, a textile worker with scars from a factory accident, searching for the "missing blueprint" left by her mother in her broken life—the code that could make the old loom weave light again.

The first scene was filmed until dusk. Sang Shuwan knelt on the cotton-padded floor, her fingertips tracing the cracks on the prop wooden table. The moment the director yelled "Cut," she heard a familiar dog barking in the distance—Jiang Cimu had brought Pojian to visit the set. Her daughter, dressed in a little cheongsam with a blue snowflake tucked into her braid, held a "Changming" doll taller than herself in her arms, carefully avoiding the power cables under the guidance of an assistant.

"Mom's scar has deepened!" Pojian rushed into her arms, her fingertips gently touching the special effects scar on her cheek—a cracked effect created by the makeup artist using wax paint, like a dried-up river. Sang Shuwan kissed the birthmark on her palm: "This is Aunt Fang Min's star tunnel, just like your little gap, which can catch so many stories."

Jiang Cimu stood by the monitor, watching his wife's transformation in front of the camera: when she touched the crack in the prop mirror, the tears welling up in her eyes were more dazzling than any lighting. He recalled last night in the villa's study, when Sang Shuwan murmured to the script, "Fang Min's crack is not a disgrace, but a code for her dialogue with her mother. Like a birthmark emerging from a cocoon, it is the star map of our family."

As dusk fell on the factory, a light snow began to fall. During a break, Sang Shuwan scrolled through her phone, her photo album containing the scene of their parting that morning: Pojian had tucked blue snowflake petals into her makeup bag, saying, "The petals will glow when Mom recites her lines." At that moment, her assistant handed her a thermos, in which a few blue snowflakes floated, the pale blue tea swirling under the light like flowing starlight.

“Ms. Sang, for the next scene filming the loom, you need to walk barefoot on broken porcelain shards.” The director approached, his tone apologetic. Sang Shuwan smiled, pointing to the real scar on her ankle: “Every wound on Fang Min’s body should have real weight.” When she stepped barefoot onto the cold ground, the sharp edges of the broken porcelain shards stung her soles, but it brought her closer to the character—the woman who lost her mother in a textile factory accident, yet wove light amidst the ruins.

Before wrapping up, Pojian fell asleep on the prop loom, her little hands still clutching the missing corner of "Changming's" wing. Sang Shuwan took off her costume and put on the cardigan Jiang Cimu handed her. She noticed that the blue snowflakes at the end of her daughter's braids were a little wilted, yet still stubbornly blooming. In the distance, the crew was cleaning up the "cracked" props; the patterns made of glass glue and gold powder seemed to be inlaid with tiny fragments of light under the spotlight.

"Tomorrow we'll be filming a flashback scene. Fang Min discovers that her mother hid the loom blueprints in the missing corner of the lotus pattern." Sang Shuwan removed her special effects makeup in front of the mirror and suddenly realized that her silk shirt had been snagged, forming a long, thin tear—just like the plot in the play, life always leaves gaps unintentionally, but it also gives light a chance to enter.

Returning to the villa late at night, Pojian was already fast asleep in the children's room, holding "Changming." Scattered around her pillow were her drawings of "Aunt Fang Min": wearing a blue cheongsam, a chipped blue snowflake pinned to her chest, her feet stepping on glittering shards of porcelain. Sang Shuwan gently tucked her daughter in. Moonlight filtered through the gauze window, casting dappled light on the birthmark on Pojian's ring finger, like a tiny, glowing star.

In the dressing room, Sang Shuwan hung up her costume and suddenly noticed that a silver thread had been sewn onto the tear at some point—it must have been Jiang Cimu who mended it while she was filming. The stitches were crooked yet gentle, weaving a flower with a missing corner at the tear, just like the script they had written together: all the brokenness would eventually become patterns of light.

Her phone vibrated; her agent had sent a message: "The trailer for 'The Light Rift' has been released, and netizens say your scar is 'the most touching star trail on the screen.'" Sang Shuwan looked out the window at the blue snowflakes swaying gently in the late autumn night breeze. Suddenly, she remembered that on set during the day, her friend, Po Ji, touched her special effects scar and said, "My mother's notch looks like the moon. I want to put all the stars into it."

Yes, she thought, every role was a gap in her life, and within each gap lived Breakthrough, Jiang Cimu, and countless others like her, searching for light in the cracks. When the lights come on on set tomorrow, she will bring the star her daughter gave her, and the silver thread her husband used to mend things, and in Fang Min's story, she will make every missing piece a starting point for light.

In the late autumn film studio, Sang Shuwan saw Sang Jiyue's van drive into the set through the rearview mirror. The van was adorned with a promotional poster for the new drama "Rift of Light"—Sang Jiyue, who played the second female lead "Lin Xiaoyu," smiled sweetly on the poster, her fingertips tracing the scar on the shoulder of Sang Shuwan's character, "Fang Min," accompanied by the caption, "Two beauties weave dreams, light and shadow intertwine." Looking at the blue snowflake mark on her palm, she recalled the charity gala three days prior, where Sang Jiyue had put her arm around her waist and smiled at the camera, saying, "Sister Wan is the one who guided me into this industry." But the blue snowflake brooch in her hair had caught on a strand during that embrace, like a hidden thorn.

In the dressing room, Sang Jiyue's laughter pierced through the partition: "Give me the same foundation as Teacher Sang, the kind that can cover all my flaws~" Sang Shuwan smiled at herself in the mirror, her fingertips tracing the lines of "Lin Xiaoyu" from the script—this seemingly gentle textile factory accountant was actually the villain who stole the female lead's mother's blueprints, even her betrayal was tinged with sweet hypocrisy. Assistant Xiao Zhou came in carrying a thermos, lowering her voice: "Sang Jiyue's team bought trending searches, saying you 'suppressed your juniors'."

The first scene between them was a standoff in the warehouse. Sang Shuwan walked barefoot on the wood chips, watching Sang Jiyue approach in her delicate little leather shoes. As her skirt fluttered, she noticed a blue snowflake tattoo on the other woman's ankle that resembled her own—except that the flower was flawless, with petals as sharp as knives.

"Sister Fang, look what this is?" Lin Xiaoyu, played by Sang Jiyue, held up the prop blueprint. As her fingertips traced the "missing lotus" pattern, her fingernails deliberately scraped against the back of Sang Shuwan's hand. In the instant the camera zoomed in, Sang Shuwan saw the provocation flash in her eyes and suddenly remembered that three years ago, backstage at an awards ceremony, the other woman had added an irritating ingredient to her moisturizer, causing her to have an allergic reaction and miss the red carpet.

"Cut!" The director suddenly frowned. "Sang Jiyue, your handing over the blueprints was too stiff, like you were handing over a dagger." Sang Shuwan took a half step back without changing her expression, and immediately put on a wronged smile as she looked at the other person: "I'm sorry, director, I really wanted to portray Xiaoyu's nervousness. Sister Wan, could you teach me again?"

During the break, Sang Jiyue, holding the script, leaned closer, her fingertips tracing the scar on Sang Shuwan's collarbone: "Sister Wan, is your scar really not special effects? It looks so real." Her warm breath brushed against her skin, and Sang Shuwan smelled the minty tobacco scent mixed with her perfume—the same perfume that had caused her allergy years ago. "Only real wounds can weave real light." She smiled and pushed the other's hand away, tucking the blue snowflake handkerchief into the script. "The character Xiaoyu doesn't lack perfection, she lacks the courage to face her cracks."

During the media visit, Sang Jiyue suddenly pointed to Sang Shuwan's journal and exclaimed, "Sister Wan actually drew her daughter's birthmark as a star! What a loving mother!" The camera focused on the doodles in the journal, but Sang Shuwan noticed that Sang Jiyue was secretly making an "ugly duckling" gesture under the table. When asked by reporters if there was any pressure in having two such talented actresses on screen together, Sang Jiyue smiled, resting her chin on her hand, and said, "Sister Wan is a senior, I just need to 'add the finishing touch'." She emphasized the word "finishing touch" at the end of her sentence, as if hinting at something.

Late at night, during rehearsals, Sang Shuwan discovered in the dressing room that her costume had been torn, with fluorescent paint applied to the rip—which would be particularly noticeable on camera. Looking at her burn scar in the mirror, she suddenly remembered Sang Jiyue saying in an interview, "The most important thing for an actress is to maintain perfection; scars should be hidden." Her fingertips traced the tear in her costume, and she suddenly smiled, taking out a silver thread she always carried and embroidering a chipped blue snowflake over the tear.

"Teacher Sang, it's time to shoot the climax." When the script supervisor knocked on the door, Sang Shuwan was adjusting her collar in front of the mirror, making sure the scar was visible through the gap in the blue snowflake embroidery. In this scene, Fang Min would expose Lin Xiaoyu's betrayal. Looking at Sang Jiyue's exquisite false eyelashes, she suddenly understood why the other was always afraid of the truth—because beneath the perfect mask lay cracks that couldn't be exposed to the light.

"What you stole wasn't the blueprints, but the starlight my mother left behind in this world." Sang Shuwan's lines echoed in the abandoned factory. When she grabbed Sang Jiyue's wrist, the camera captured a fleeting look of panic in the other's eyes—the moment a crack appeared in the perfect mask. The blue snowflake embroidery on her chest rose and fell gently with her breath, the silver thread at the missing corner shining brightly under the spotlight, like a light that could never be concealed.

After filming wrapped, Sang Jiyue's assistant delivered a gift box, saying it was "an apology gift from my sister." Opening the exquisite velvet box, inside lay an expensive scar repair cream, the bottle emblazoned with the advertising slogan "Restore Perfect Skin." Sang Shuwan smiled and told Xiao Zhou to accept it, then turned and put the gift box into the props warehouse—a place piled high with "crack" props from "Cracked Light," each scar meticulously decorated with gold powder, as if to say: true light is never in perfection, but in the courage to face brokenness.

The phone vibrated; Jiang Cimu had sent a bedtime video of her daughter emerging from her cocoon. The little girl, holding up her newly sewn doll, shouted into the camera, "Mommy, did you defeat the bad auntie? Changming's wings have gained another star!" Sang Shuwan looked at the birthmark on her daughter's palm in the video and suddenly remembered what Sang Jiyue had said during the day: "Aren't you afraid your daughter will be mocked because of her birthmark?" At that time, she had replied, "What I fear is that she will learn to hide her light."

The night wind rustled through the old locust trees in the film studio. Sang Shuwan watched Sang Jiyue's nanny van drive away, its taillights casting two blinding streaks in the darkness. She touched the blue snowflake embroidery on her chest; the silver thread at the missing corner prickled her palm, reminding her of the blue snowflakes in the villa garden—the more cold the late autumn, the more stubbornly they bloomed on their scars.

The next morning, Sang Shuwan saw Sang Jiyue applying concealer in front of the mirror in the dressing room, layers of foundation covering her originally delicate face. When the director announced, "Today we're filming Lin Xiaoyu's flashback scene, which requires real tear stains," the other woman suddenly looked at her, a hint of panic flashing in her eyes. Sang Shuwan, however, simply flipped through her notebook, looking at the simple sketch "Mom defeats the bad sister" that Pojian had drawn—a blue snowflake with a missing corner was piercing through the false perfection, letting light leak into every corner hiding cracks.

The day after the Frost's Descent, the old locust trees in the film studio began to shed their leaves. Sang Shuwan stood outside the studio, listening to Sang Jiyue's voice suddenly rise during the audition: "Director, I need to be slapped for real in this crying scene! Sister Wan, let's do it for real, that's what makes it real!" She watched the other girl wiping away tears in front of the monitor, her fingertips unconsciously stroking the dried blue snowflakes tucked in her notebook—they were specially picked from the garden this morning by Pojian, who said, "Mom will win today."

The highlight of the scene was Lin Xiaoyu tearing up Fang Min's mother's loom blueprints in public, which required Sang Shuwan to slap Sang Jiyue. Before filming began, Sang Jiyue leaned close to her ear, her sweet voice hiding a hint of icy coldness: "Sister Wan, you don't even have this much professionalism, do you? Back then, you didn't even want a stunt double for explosion scenes." As she spoke, she secretly dug her nails into the old scar on Sang Shuwan's wrist.

"ACTION!"

As Sang Shuwan's slap landed, she deliberately deflected it by half an inch, her palm grazing Sang Jiyue's ear. But on camera, the other woman stumbled and fell, her fingertips tracing the real scar on Sang Jiyue's ankle, causing her eyes to well up with pain. "Cut!" The director abruptly stood up, and Sang Jiyue, already covering her face, cried out, "I'm sorry, Sister Wan, I... I lost my balance..."

In the rest area, the makeup artist treated the scratches on Sang Shuwan's ankle. Xiao Zhou was trembling with anger: "She was clearly wearing cut-resistant gloves!" Sang Shuwan, however, stared at the torn "missing corner drawings" in the script—props that Jiang Cimu had rushed to make overnight, each piece of paper adorned with the veins of blue snowflakes. "It's alright," she chuckled, "Fang Min's injury was meant to carry the warmth of pain."

The midday sun shone through the holes in the roof, casting dappled light and shadow on Sang Jiyue's makeup mirror. Sang Shuwan saw her repeatedly applying concealer to the corner of her lips, where there was a barely visible mole—three years ago, Sang Jiyue had said in an interview that "a perfect actor should not have any flaws," but now, in order to fit the character of "Lin Xiaoyu," she had artificially "created" a beauty mark through makeup.

"Sister Wan, look at this." The stage manager ran over with a tablet. The trending topic "Sang Shuwan acts like a diva" had already climbed to third place, accompanied by a picture of her profile when she left this morning, with the shadow on her jawline maliciously photoshopped into a "disgusted expression." Just as Xiao Zhou was about to explode, Sang Shuwan pointed to the blue snowflake doodle drawn by Pojian in the comments section: "Look, a little fan named 'Missing Star' drew my scar as a moon boat."

During the afternoon filming of an underwater scene, Sang Jiyue suddenly pointed at Sang Shuwan's costume and exclaimed, "Sister Wan's cheongsam has a tear!" Everyone looked over and saw a rip in the fabric at the top of her thigh, revealing the muscle lines left from filming action scenes years ago—that was cut with a razor blade by Sang Jiyue's team beforehand. Sang Shuwan, however, laughed and pulled off her blue snowflake belt, tying it over the tear: "Fang Min's loom can even weave starlight, what's there to worry about in mending this little tear?"

The moment the camera entered the water, Sang Shuwan saw Sang Jiyue secretly pulling her hair underwater. The water rushed against her eardrums, but she remembered the audition twelve years ago—back then, Sang Jiyue was just a nobody hiding behind her, timidly saying, "Sister Wan, I want to become an actress like you." Later, she learned that the other party had secretly changed her audition time, causing her to miss out on the lead role in "Moonlight Dream".

"Cut! Sang Jiyue, did your swimming goggles get wet? Why are your eyes so unfocused?" The director's roar jolted her out of her reverie. Sang Shuwan surfaced and saw the other woman frantically wiping her eye makeup, her false eyelashes askew on her cheekbones—the eternally perfect "Lin Xiaoyu" had finally revealed her flaws underwater.

After finishing work, Sang Shuwan saw a video sent by Jiang Cimu in the nanny van. Pojian was lying on the carpet, using glue to piece together broken porcelain shards to form a lotus flower with a missing corner: "This is a star shield for Mom!" The golden retriever "Poji" squatted beside her, its tail brushing against the blue snowflake specimen album at her daughter's feet—she had been collecting it since spring, each petal labeled: "The star from the day Mom filmed the crying scene," "The moon when Poji bit off Changming's wings."

Sang Shuwan's phone vibrated; her agent had sent her some embarrassing past: Sang Jiyue had mocked an ordinary girl's birthmark during a live stream, saying, "Flaws should be covered up." Looking at the other girl's delicate smile in the video, Sang Shuwan suddenly remembered what Pojian had said that morning: "That pretty auntie's eyes don't have stars in them because she's covered up all the imperfections."

A cold rain fell on the film studio late at night. Sang Shuwan walked alone into the prop warehouse and saw Sang Jiyue practicing slapping in front of the mirror. "Do you need me to teach you?" The moment she spoke, the other woman hurriedly turned around. The "perfect makeup" on the mirror was washed away by cold sweat, revealing faint fine lines at the corners of her eyes.

"Why did you do this?" Sang Jiyue's voice finally dropped its pretense. "You could have been a perfect female star like before, why did you have to parade around with these scars?"

Sang Shuwan stared at her trembling fingertips, recalling what Sang Jiyue had said backstage when she first received the Golden Harvest Award: "Do you know how hard I tried to cover up my congenital cleft lip? But you, on the other hand, treat your scar like a medal!"

“Because true light,” she said, taking out the blue snowflake brooch she had given him and pinning it to the hole in his costume, “is never hidden behind a perfect mask, but in the courage to admit flaws. Look, this flower has a missing piece, yet the rain has poured in, nourishing new roots.”

Sang Jiyue stared at the blue snowflake on the brooch, then suddenly covered her face. Sang Shuwan saw a glint of silver in her fingertips—it was the fake temporary tattoo she always wore, mimicking her own scar. "I...I'm afraid the audience won't like actors with flaws..." Her voice trembled with tears, like a child finally taking down a fairy light.

When the rain stopped, Sang Shuwan returned to the villa. Pojian was waiting for her in the entryway, cradling the patched-up "Changming" in her arms. "Did Mommy win?" the little girl asked, rubbing her eyes, a blue snowflake still pinned to her braids from earlier that day. She picked up her daughter, smelling the faint scent of grass in the child's hair, and suddenly understood: the so-called duel is never a contest of winning or losing, but rather a way for each soul to see its own light even in the cracks.

At three in the morning, the film studio was like a ghost town. Sang Shuwan's van rolled over puddles, its headlights illuminating the blue snowflakes swaying in the rain. The brooch given to her by the cocoon shimmered faintly on her costume; it was made of small diamonds glued on by a child, crooked yet brimming with starlight—just like the trending topics on her phone at this moment. Under the hashtag "Sang Shuwan's scar," the top trending topic read "The 'Goddess of the Cocoon' we used to idolize," accompanied by a classic scene from "The Everlasting Flame of the Cocoon": the heroine holding a chipped embroidery hoop, the scar winding from her wrist to her palm, yet allowing light to trace its path.

“Sister Wan, Sang Jiyue’s team bought marketing accounts.” Xiao Zhou handed her a thermos, the water temperature just right at her usual 45 degrees Celsius. “They said you deliberately showed your scars to gain sympathy, and even dug up your audition video for ‘Moonlight Dream’…”

Sang Shuwan stared at her reflection from twelve years ago on her phone. Underneath the torn costume from her audition, the real scars were still fresh. Back then, Sang Jiyue was hiding in the dressing room, repeatedly applying concealer to her chapped lips, but upon seeing her wound, she said, "Sister Wan, for people like us, even breathing is a flaw."

The thermos was hot in her palm, and she suddenly remembered the broken porcelain lotus that had been glued back together after she broke free of her cocoon—the chipped corners had been painted with blue paint to resemble a moon boat, with the words "Mom's Star Shield" crookedly written on the hull. Her fingertips swiped across the phone screen, stopping at a screenshot of Sang Jiyue's latest live stream: the other person was wearing the same blue snowflake earrings as her, but with diamonds embedded in every crevice, just like the torn costume she had hidden in her sleeve at the audition twelve years ago.

The aroma of coffee wafted from the dressing room of the film studio in the early morning.

Sang Jiyue's makeup artist was applying a thick layer of concealer to her tear troughs. Sang Shuwan's reflection was in the mirror; the neckline of her costume was slightly open, revealing a butterfly-shaped scar below her collarbone—a wound inflicted by wire work during the filming of "The Storm in the Northern Desert," now transformed into a flying blue snowflake. "This is a scene of rupture," the director said, tapping the script. "The moment Fang Min discovers her sister has secretly altered the loom blueprints and is about to tear up the embroidery hoop—Sang Jiyue, your eyes must convey a hint of jealousy, yet also a hidden fear."

Sang Shuwan stared at the other woman's suddenly stiff shoulder line, recalling the scene she had witnessed in the prop warehouse last night: Sang Jiyue was covering the cracks in the blue snowflake prop, which had shattered in two, with concealer, only to hurriedly stuff it under the table when she saw her. "Let's begin," she said softly, her fingertips tracing the hole in the costume—a hole she had deliberately cut with scissors that morning, the edges frayed, much like the clumsy act of piecing together broken porcelain from a cocoon.

As the camera zoomed in, Sang Jiyue's hand hovered above the bandages, her nails almost digging into her palms. Looking at the scar on Sang Shuwan's collarbone, she suddenly remembered that stormy night twelve years ago. She had been hiding outside the audition room when she saw Sang Shuwan rushing over in the rain, the bandages under her costume already soaked with blood. "Why didn't you cover it?" she had asked then, and the other woman simply smiled and pulled off the bandages: "A scar is where the light has lived."

"Tear!" The director's voice startled the powder off her eyelashes. Sang Jiyue's hand fell heavily, but stopped the moment it touched the bandage—a blue snowflake ribbon was wrapped around the edge of the bandage, tied by Pojian yesterday, with the words "Leave a door for the light" written at the end. Looking at the soft light in Sang Shuwan's eyes, she suddenly remembered the porcelain jar she had hidden in the dressing room, full of collected rhinestones used to fill every loose thread on the costume, but it lacked only a gap to let the light in.

During her lunch break, Sang Shuwan found Sang Jiyue's script outside the RV.

Turning to the page depicting the breakup, the blank spaces were filled with tiny blue snowflakes, each one chipped at a corner, like graffiti mimicking the breaking of a cocoon. On the last page, written in red pen, was the question: "If I had scars, could I also become Fang Min?" The writing was blurred by water, clearly showing traces of tears from the previous night.

“Sister Wan.” Sang Jiyue stood behind her at some point, clutching the blue snowflake specimen book that she had left behind. “Breaking the Cocoon said that the gaps in each petal are the footprints of stars…” Her voice trembled as her fingertips traced the blue snowflake pasted in the specimen book, the one from the day Sang Shuwan filmed her crying scene—the petal was missing a corner, but it was carefully sandwiched in gold foil.

Sang Shuwan took the specimen album and saw that the latest page had half a withered leaf pasted on it, with the words "The moon when the broken wing was bitten by Changming" written next to it. She suddenly remembered what she had said this morning when she emerged from the cocoon: "Butterflies feel pain when they emerge from their cocoons, but after the pain, the powder on their wings can catch the stars." Her fingertips traced the back of Sang Jiyue's hand, where there was a very shallow burn—a scar patch that imitated hers, but it always peeled off when she sweated.

"Do you know why I always carry a blue snowflake?" Sang Shuwan opened her phone's photo album, which contained hundreds of photos of blue snowflakes with missing corners. "Twelve years ago, after failing an audition, I saw a blue snowflake that had been trampled on at the alley entrance. Its petals were missing corners, but it was still blooming. Later I realized that the real protagonists never need to be perfect, but rather, like this flower, they take root in the cracks."

The rain scene in the evening went exceptionally smoothly during filming.

For the first time, Sang Jiyue didn't let the makeup artist cover the fine lines under her eyes. As she tore apart the bandages in the rain, her fingertips traced the rough edges that Sang Shuwan had deliberately left, and she suddenly understood that those imperfect stitches were the true breath of the story. "Fang Min, you've been empty here for a long time!" Her lines were choked with sobs, yet more real than any rehearsal. "You thought leaving imperfections was gentleness, but it's actually giving everyone an excuse to hurt you!"

Looking at her reddened eyes, Sang Shuwan recalled the little girl backstage twelve years ago who secretly wore her earring, the chip in which was stuck right on her cleft lip. Now, the blue snowflake brooch was pinned to the hole in the other's costume, the chipped corner revealing her throbbing pulse—it turned out that the most moving acting was never about covering up flaws, but about making flaws the heartbeat of the character.

At the wrap party, Sang Jiyue suddenly raised her wine glass.

"A tribute to all imperfect transformations." Her voice was tinged with laughter, but her eyes welled up with tears when she saw the scar on Sang Shuwan's sleeve. "Actually, I've always envied you, envied your ability to openly show your scars, just like I envied how transformations could piece together broken porcelain into a moon boat." She took out a small porcelain jar filled with diamond fragments she had collected over the years, but poured them into a flowerpot under everyone's gaze. "From today onwards, I want to try to let the light in through the imperfections."

Looking at the sparkling diamond fragments in the soil, Sang Shuwan suddenly remembered what Pojian had said: "Diamond fragments need to be buried in the soil to grow into glowing blue snowflakes." She held Sang Jiyue's hand and touched the thin calluses on the other's palm—the result of years of repeatedly applying fake tattoo stickers. "Do you know? The cleft lip you've hidden is actually the same as my scar; it's a place where light has lived."

Returning home late at night, Pojian was lying on the floor mending Changming's wings.

The teddy bear's wings were missing a corner, but the child patched them up into a moon boat with blue snowflake stickers, with small pieces of paper covered with the word "crippled" scattered around. "Mommy, look!" Pojian held up her glue-covered hand, with a missing blue snowflake stuck to her palm. "The teacher said that everyone has a hole in their heart, just enough for a star to fall in."

Sang Shuwan picked up her daughter, smelling the scent of grass in her hair—the result of rolling around on the lawn of the film studio during the day. Moonlight shone through the gauze window onto a photo on the wall: twelve years ago at the audition, Sang Jiyue hid behind her, while in the current photo, the other woman finally dared to show the small mole on the corner of her lip, like a star fallen into a missing corner.

Sang Shuwan's phone vibrated. It was a message from Sang Jiyue, along with a photo: on her dressing table, next to the jar of broken diamonds, stood a chipped blue snowflake with the words "Leave a door open for the light" written on its petals. Sang Shuwan smiled, her fingertips tracing the newly made "star shield"—a shard of porcelain shimmering under the light, the chipped corner revealing her daughter's birthmark on her palm, strikingly similar to the fire under the old jujube tree years ago.

A night breeze swept across the windowsill, rustling the blue snowflake specimen album. Sang Shuwan gazed at her sleeping daughter's face and suddenly understood that in the perfection-driven entertainment industry, she and her daughter were like two blue snowflakes with missing pieces, using their cracks to catch starlight, weaving tenderness with their imperfections. And the fear in Sang Jiyue's eyes would eventually transform into the first ray of light at the moment of breaking free from the cocoon—like the fire that once burned beneath the old jujube tree, forever waiting in its imperfection to illuminate a new story.

The winter solstice sunlight slanted into the makeup room of the film studio, and Sang Jiyue's live broadcast camera was focused on her bare face for the first time.

She touched the crack at the corner of her lips, her fingertips trembling slightly, while the comments on the screen exploded like blue snowflakes: "Sister's dimples are so cute!" "So true beauty is imperfect courage!" The blue snowflake hair clip given to her by the Cocoon was pinned to her temple, the chipped petals perfectly covering the teeth marks she had made when she was nervous.

"Twelve years ago, I met Sister Wan for the first time," she said, looking at the camera, her voice more genuine than when she was filming. "Her costume was torn, and her scars were exposed, but there was light in her eyes. At that time, I always felt that actors should be as flawless as diamonds, until I saw Pojian piece together the broken porcelain into a moon boat..." Suddenly, a large number of gifts flooded into the live broadcast room, all of them blue snowflake icons with missing corners, just like the paper flowers that Pojian taught the children to fold in kindergarten.

Sang Shuwan leaned against the dressing room door, watching Sang Jiyue take out the porcelain jar that had been filled with broken diamonds, now containing sprouted blue plumbago seeds. "Actually, flaws aren't defects," she said, holding up the torn script to the camera, "It's the light that found our way." The live chat was instantly flooded with comments about "incompleteness." Some viewers noticed that a few broken diamonds, glued together by the character "破綼" (a character from a Chinese novel), were stuck into the hole in Sang Jiyue's costume, crooked yet shimmering.

During the weekend parent-child craft class, she broke free from her cocoon and became a little teacher.

She squatted on the carpet, teaching Sang Jiyue how to glue the broken porcelain shards back together: "Make sure to leave a little gap so the stars can climb in." The little girl's apron was covered in blue paint, a stark contrast to Sang Jiyue's white cheongsam—the latter had deliberately chosen an old garment with patched edges, the patches embroidered with tiny blue snowflakes.

“Mom said,” she held up the patched-up lotus flower with transparent glue marks between the petals, “that every crack is a staircase to light.” Sang Jiyue looked at the birthmark on her child’s palm and suddenly remembered her own cleft lip, which she had kept hidden for thirty years. At that moment, it was in the sunlight of the kindergarten, being painted into a smiling crescent moon by Mom with colored pencils.

At the end of the craft class, Sang Jiyue received gifts from the children: paper stars with missing corners, hairbands with patches, and cards with drawn scars. Touching the crooked words "Go, Sister!" on one of the cards, she suddenly realized that the "flaws" she had been afraid of for thirty years were, in the children's eyes, just gaps that made the story more interesting.

At the press conference for the reboot of "Moonlight Dream", Sang Shuwan and Sang Jiyue made an appearance together.

Both women wore blue snowflake brooches; Sang Shuwan's was a broken porcelain design resembling a broken cocoon, while Sang Jiyue's was a 3D-printed design retaining the marks of her cleft lip. When the host asked about the audition controversy from back then, Sang Jiyue suddenly pulled out a concealer from twelve years ago: "Actually, I've always lived in a perfect cocoon, until Sister Wan and Breaking the Cocoon taught me—only when the cocoon breaks can the light come in."

A thunderous applause erupted from the audience, with one holding up a light stick that read, "Our star lives in the missing piece." Sang Shuwan looked at Sang Jiyue beside her and noticed that she finally dared to laugh heartily in front of the camera, her lips curving upwards with the smile, like a blooming blue snowflake. What she didn't know was that backstage in the dressing room, Sang Jiyue had secretly buried the jar of broken diamonds in a flowerpot—these were star seeds that had sprouted from their cocoon.

At the awards ceremony in the depths of winter, Sang Shuwan won the Golden Harvest Award for "The Everlasting Flame of the Cocoon".

She held the chipped trophy, her gaze sweeping across the audience—a child was holding up a chipped light board with a doodle of her and Sang Jiyue holding hands. “This award,” she said, looking at Sang Jiyue wiping away tears in the audience, “belongs to everyone who dares to plant light in the cracks.”

The camera panned across Sang Jiyue, who was without false eyelashes for the first time. The fine lines under her eyes were clearly visible under the spotlight, yet she shone brighter than ever. When Sang Shuwan mentioned the broken porcelain lotus emerging from its cocoon, the scene on the big screen suddenly changed: the lotus was teaching children at kindergarten how to sew wounds on dolls, leaving small gaps in each patch, as if waiting for light to come in.

During a backstage interview, Sang Jiyue suddenly took out her phone and showed a voice message that Pojian had sent her: "Aunt Jiyue's cleft lip looks like a little moon. My mother said that the gap in the moon is to make way for the stars!" Her voice choked up, but it was filled with unprecedented ease. "It turns out that the real starlight never needs a perfect mask. It is hidden in the imperfections that we dare to admit."

Backstage at the New Year's Eve gala, Pojian came to find Sang Jiyue carrying "Changming".

The teddy bear's wings were torn again, but the child patched them up with blue snowflake stickers, making them look brand new. "Auntie, can you sew them up for me?" Pojian looked up at Sang Jiyue, a chipped hair clip that Sang Jiyue had given her tucked into her braid. "You have to leave a little gap, okay? That way, Changming can fly to find the stars."

Sang Jiyue took the needle and thread, suddenly remembering the first time she mended clothes for Pojian, she had pricked her finger in nervousness. Now, she deliberately left a small slit at the edge of the patch, and sunlight shone through the gap, casting tiny spots of light on Pojian's palm. "It's done," she said, stroking the top of the child's head, "Now Changming's wings will let out stars."

Breaking free from her cocoon, Pojian ran off with a cheer. Sang Jiyue watched her retreating figure and suddenly noticed a chipped blue snowflake in her cheongsam pocket—it had been secretly placed there by Pojian, with the words "Auntie's star is here" written on the petal. She suddenly smiled, straightening her cleft lip in front of the mirror, and for the first time realized that this "flaw" that had made her feel inferior for thirty years actually held unexpected starlight, just like the chipped blue snowflake.

The first snow of the new year fell in front of Sang Shuwan's villa, and Pojian was building a snowman.

She dressed the snowman in a scarf with a missing piece of blue snowflakes, adorned its eyes with rhinestones, but deliberately left a nostril—"so the snowman can smell the scent of spring." Sang Jiyue stood at the door carrying a gift, the wrapping paper in her hand adorned with blue snowflakes drawn by Pochan, each one missing a piece, yet carefully pieced together to form a starry sky.

“Sister Wan, you’ve broken free of your cocoon,” she said, looking at the mother and daughter chasing each other in the snow, her voice filled with relief. “I signed up for a public service short film to play a dream weaver with a cleft lip.” She took out the script, the cover of which featured a loom with a missing corner. “The director said that my cleft lip is the best prop because it gives the character a sense of breath.”

Sang Shuwan took the script and saw the doodle on the title page: two blue snowflakes with missing corners holding hands, with the words "Sisters of the Imperfect Birth" written in the middle. She suddenly remembered the rainy night twelve years ago, the little girl hiding in the audition room, who now finally dared to leave her lip print on the script—like the crack left by the emerging cocoon on a broken porcelain lotus, allowing light to shine in.

The snow fell heavier and heavier. Suddenly, Pojian ran over, holding a handful of melting blue snowflakes. Ice crystals clung to the broken corners of the petals, like strings of glowing tears. "Mom, Aunt Jiyue," she said, placing the snowflakes in their palms, "Look! The gaps in the snowflakes are glowing!"

Sang Shuwan and Sang Jiyue smiled at each other. The snowflakes in their palms melted into water, but under the sunlight, they reflected a rainbow of colors—a gift from the missing piece, a miracle of the crack, a starlight they wove with courage that would never close.

Snowflakes pattered against the French windows, and the laughter of a child emerging from a cocoon gradually faded around the corner of the stairs. Sang Shuwan gazed at the blue snowflake footprints left by her daughter, the warmth of her child's palm still lingering on her fingertips. Turning around, she saw Sang Jiyue adjusting her scarf in front of the entryway mirror, half a script peeking out from under her cashmere coat—the gold-embossed cover of "Moonlight Dream" gleaming coldly under the wall lamp, the very play that Sang Shuwan had missed twelve years ago.

"How's the public service announcement coming along?" Sang Shuwan took the ginger tea handed to her by Aunt Zhou, deliberately ignoring the other woman's action of hiding the script. Her fingertips traced the sketchbook on the coffee table, which had been transformed from a cocoon. Next to the blue snowflake with a missing corner, she wrote "Mom and Aunt Jiyue's Starship".