After I died, they cried in the live studio

Chapter 178 Gratitude
The thermos on the bedside table was still steaming. Sang Jiyue suddenly remembered that winter night twelve years ago when President Qi braved the snow to bring her a bowl of stewed pear soup, but she spilled it on the floor because she had failed her audition. She thought the other woman would be angry, but instead, she saw her squat down to pick up the broken pieces, her fingertips cut by the porcelain shards, but she didn't look up: "Do you know why I chose you? Because you have a crack in your eyes that no one else has—that's the path that light should walk."

“Now it’s my turn to be your crack.” Sang Jiyue suddenly grasped the other’s still cool hand and pressed her fingertips against the puncture mark on the other’s ring finger. “You always say my scars are stars, but aren’t your puncture marks, your bruises, and the weariness you hide under your suit brighter starlight?”

Ms. Qi's eyelashes trembled violently. Fine snowflakes drifted in from the window, landing on her hair like scattered diamonds. Suddenly, she lowered her head and bit Sang Jiyue's fingertip, the force as light as a butterfly's flutter, yet the latter felt the dampness from her fingertip—it turned out that this domineering female CEO, who always stood firm at the negotiating table, was hiding her tears in their intertwined palms.

The phone vibrated again in his pocket, this time with the contact name changed to "Breaking Free." President Qi took a deep breath and immediately switched to a smiling tone when the video call connected: "Little artist, why aren't you asleep so late?" A wall covered in graffiti popped up on the screen. "Breaking Free" held up a crooked drawing of two people holding hands, surrounded by glowing cracks: "I drew star bandages for Sister Jiyue! President Qi, you have to stick them in the brightest spot for her!"

Sang Jiyue leaned closer and saw that the blue snowflake folded from paper was pinned to President Qi's suit in the painting, exactly the same as the pattern on her wristband. In the background of the video, workers at the charity theater were installing new string lights, each bulb with a notch, like blank spaces waiting to be filled with stories.

“Let’s go see the children in the mountain primary school after I’m discharged from the hospital.” Sang Jiyue looked at President Qi’s gradually relaxing shoulders and suddenly remembered what he had said under the starry sky—“True fulfillment is to allow every guardian to find warmth in the starlight of others.” At this moment, looking at the person in front of her who was both her manager and her guardian, she finally understood that they had already planted an inextinguishable blue snowflake in the cracks between them.

As the morning light streamed into the ward, President Qi was asleep, leaning against the headboard. His phone screen still displayed the script outline for "The Inheritor," with the latest page reading: "The female lead discovers in her agent's notebook that behind every crossed-out schedule lies an unspoken 'I'm here.'" Sang Jiyue gently pulled the other's hand away from her body and saw the silver ring on her ring finger gleaming in the morning light—those three engravings were clearly the traces of their mutual illumination.

The snow stopped, and the distant siren of an ambulance could be heard, but it couldn't disturb the mingled breathing in the ward. Sang Jiyue looked at the faint shadows under President Qi's eyes and suddenly realized that starlight is never a solitary brilliance, but rather the result of two flawed souls, who, over the long years, have transformed their rifts into light that illuminates the world.

As the morning light gilded the edges of President Qi's eyelashes, Sang Jiyue traced the thin calluses on the back of her hand with her fingertips—marks worn from years of holding pens, typing, and even moving props in the rehearsal hall. Twelve years ago in the basement, these hands had held her wrists to correct her rhythm of lines; now, they lay quietly curled into a weary arc in her palms. The thermos on the bedside table was long cold, a thin layer of oil condensing on the surface of the pear soup, much like the gold leaf reflected in President Qi's eyelashes when she squatted by the campfire outside the film set tent that year, brewing medicine for her.

"Awake?" President Qi's hoarse voice startled the sparrows on the windowsill. She had opened her eyes at some point and was staring blankly at the wristband dangling from Sang Jiyue's wrist. "Last night I dreamt that you fell at the premiere, and the wristband cracked open, revealing the star lights inside." Her fingertips unconsciously caressed the old scar on the inside of the other's wrist, where a tiny blue snowflake tattoo was hidden. It was something the two of them had secretly gotten done when the charity documentary wrapped up last year—President Qi said that they wanted to plant the most hidden starlight in the place closest to the heartbeat.

Sang Jiyue suddenly laughed, the IV tube trembling slightly. "Dreaming of me falling? You clearly prepared eighteen contingency plans backstage, even adjusting the wheelchair ramp lights seven times." She looked at the other person's instantly tense shoulders, then suddenly lowered her voice, "Actually, I know that in the bottom drawer of your desk, there's a notebook covered in bandages, and on the back of each sticker is written the date I got injured..."

Ms. Qi's ears suddenly burned. She abruptly pulled her hand back to reach for the thermos, but knocked over a glass bottle on the bedside table—it contained star sand sent by Pojian, each grain painted pale blue, shimmering with gold dust in the morning light. "A child's prank," she said hastily, straightening the bottle. A crooked sticky note was stuck to the bottle: "I put stars in Ms. Qi's eyes so they won't get tired when she stays up late!"

The ward door was pushed open at that moment, and the assistant poked her head in with a laptop. Seeing President Qi's instantly stiff back, she immediately fell silent. Sang Jiyue, however, waved to her: "Come in, I heard you sneeze three times in the corridor. Is it colder outside?" The assistant pushed up her glasses with a wry smile. The screen displayed the rehearsal schedule for "The Inheritor." The line practice section that originally belonged to Sang Jiyue had been changed to "Mandatory Lunch Break" in red pen by President Qi at some point.

“A teacher from a primary school in the mountainous area sent a video.” The assistant pulled up the file. In the video, dozens of children were holding up cardboard covered with blue snowflakes, with gold foil stars stuck in the cracks. “They said they were waiting for Sister Jiyue to teach a new sign language dance, and they also asked President Qi when he would take Brother Pojian to hold an art exhibition.” The camera panned across the back wall of the classroom, where postcards sent last year were pieced together into a huge star shape, with a photo of Sang Jiyue and President Qi backstage at the theater in the middle—the two of them were wearing paper crowns made by Pojian, and their smiles were brighter than the string lights above their heads.

Suddenly, President Qi stood up, walked to the window, and dialed a number. Her voice was restrained and gentle: "Have the logistics department send the spare blue snowflake blankets to the mountainous area, yes, the kind with a heating function. Also, send the art supply box from the Cocoon Project via express delivery. He said last week that he wanted to teach the children to fill cracks with gold powder..." Sunlight filtered through her fingers, casting dappled patterns on the ground. Sang Jiyue noticed half a silver ring peeking out of her suit pocket. It was the one the two of them had bought at a charity auction—the inside of the ring was engraved with the tiny words "Gap," in the handwriting of their first collaborative script.

“Actually, I overheard the nurses chatting in the emergency room yesterday,” Sang Jiyue suddenly said after her assistant left, glancing at President Qi’s slightly stunned expression as he turned away. “They said that the lady in the haute couture suit even used warm wet wipes to clean the patients’ hands, and that the way she stared at the IV tube was like she was guarding the most precious star in the world.”

Suddenly, President Qi walked over and pressed his fingertips to her lips, but upon touching her chapped lips, he hurriedly withdrew his hand to search for lip balm. As the strawberry-flavored balm was applied to her lips, Sang Jiyue noticed a tiny bead of blood seeping from the needle mark on his ring finger—it was from being scratched by the needle while adjusting the IV tubing. She suddenly grabbed that hand, lowered her head, and gently pecked at the needle mark, just like President Qi had done when he treated the old scar under her wristband years ago.

"Nonsense!" President Qi suddenly took a half step back, causing the star-shaped sand bottle on the windowsill to shake. Gold dust sprinkled onto her suit sleeves, making it look like stars had fallen to earth. But the light surging in her eyes was brighter than the gold dust, like the light that suddenly entered her pupils twelve years ago in the audition room when she saw Sang Jiyue reveal her scar to the camera.

As the afternoon sunlight streamed over the hospital bed, Sang Jiyue noticed that President Qi's notebook was lying open on her lap. The latest page featured a revised design for the theater's dome: each gap in the lamp was connected to a sensor, and when an audience member wearing a special bracelet approached, the lamp would flash according to their heartbeat—"so that every gap in the soul could find resonant starlight." Next to it, in red pen, was a note from the author, "The core code should be based on the heartbeat frequencies of Sister Jiyue and President Qi!"

“Actually, you knew all along, didn’t you?” Sang Jiyue looked at the other’s suddenly stiff shoulders, then reached out and grasped her hand holding the pen, drawing a crooked blue snowflake on the blank space of the notebook. “Knowing that the first time I saw you revising the script backstage, the pen lingered for three seconds on the word ‘scar,’ I understood that you were hiding a wound even deeper than mine…”

Mr. Qi didn't speak, but turned to the last page of the notebook, where there was a yellowed sticky note. It was written by Sang Jiyue when she first entered the industry: "To Mr. Qi: My wristband is coming undone, but the blue snowflakes you sewed are still shining." The corner of the paper was stained with a faint coffee stain, like moonlight that had been repeatedly rubbed.

As dusk settled into the ward, President Qi fell asleep by the bedside, his fingers still hooked around Sang Jiyue's IV drip tube, as if afraid she would be carried away by the starlight. Sang Jiyue gazed at the gradually brightening lights of thousands of homes outside the window and suddenly remembered what President Qi had said: "Every city has cracks, just as everyone has scars, but there are always people holding lamps, waiting beside the cracks."

She lowered her head and kissed the top of the other person's head, the salty snow water mixed with the scent of cedar perfume lingering on her tongue. In the distance, new string lights lit up in the direction of the charity theater, the gap-shaped beams of light forming a galaxy, flowing towards the hospital—the starlight they had planted with their own hands, forever shining, forever waiting, in every weary night, in every moment when warmth is needed, so that every soul with a gap can find its own constellation.

The ticking of the monitor wove a fine web in the midnight air. CEO Qi, using the cold light of her phone to process emails, the tapping of her fingers on the screen startled the sparrows perched on the windowsill. Sang Jiyue, her eyes half-closed, watched as her suit tie askew at her collarbone, the cuffs still stained with bits of pear she had sprinkled while feeding her soup—this powerful female CEO, who could lift a thirty-pound trophy with one hand at the celebration banquet, was now using her other hand to gently shield the IV drip, as if afraid the night wind might disturb the moonlight reflected in the glass bottle.

“This is the thirty-seventh message.” Sang Jiyue suddenly spoke, startling President Qi so much that her fingertip paused on the delete key. “Last week you stayed up all night with me on set, secretly splashing your face with cold water at four in the morning, the mirror was all fogged up, yet you still said ‘a manager doesn’t need sleep.’” She watched as the other party quickly locked the screen, catching a glimpse of the words “Theater Renovation Approval” flashing on the edge of the screen. “Actually, the label on the melatonin bottle in your drawer has been worn shiny by you for a while now, hasn’t it?”

President Qi's Adam's apple bobbed. He turned his face away to loosen his tie, but stopped when he saw Sang Jiyue's canvas bag on the bedside table—the first blue snowflake brooch she had given him twelve years ago was still stuck in the frayed edges of the bag strap. "And you?" she suddenly asked, her voice hoarse with a sense of desperation, "You filled your entire month's schedule with charity performances, even hiding your period from me when you went to a primary school in the mountains, and ended up slipping and scraping your knee in the mud, your wristband full of grass clippings..."

She swallowed the last words, and President Qi suddenly stood up, her suit trousers scraping against the bed frame with a sizzling sound. Sang Jiyue saw her take out a cigarette pack from her inner pocket, but then, remembering that smoking was prohibited in the ward, she irritably stuffed it back in—this detail reminded her of three years ago at the film festival backstage, when President Qi had hidden in the fire escape to finish half a cigarette, then turned around and smiled as she shielded her from the paparazzi who surrounded her. The smell of tobacco mixed with perfume on his fingertips became the most reassuring barrier in her memory.

"Come here." Sang Jiyue lifted a corner of the blanket, the IV tube tracing a silver arc on the headboard. "I heard you talking to your assistant on the phone just now, saying, 'Change tomorrow morning's meeting to a video conference, and we must have the sponsor's revised proposal by 10 a.m.'" She looked at President Qi's frozen back and suddenly laughed. "Back in the basement, you forced me to sleep for four hours before I was allowed to touch the script, and now you want me to supervise you in return?"

As President Qi turned around, Sang Jiyue saw a glimmer of tears in her eyes, like shattered stars. But she quickly regained her efficient demeanor as a manager, taking a few steps to the bedside. However, as she bent over, Sang Jiyue grabbed her wrist—the scent of cedar in her cashmere coat brushed against her nose, mixed with the distinctive smell of disinfectant from the hospital, becoming a more effective reassurance than any sleeping pill.

"Get some sleep." Sang Jiyue pushed the pillow over and moved to the edge of the bed herself. The IV tube swayed between them, casting dappled light. "I'll count the drops from the IV drip. Every fifty drops, I'll reply to an email for you." Her fingertips traced the thin calluses on the back of the other person's hand. She suddenly remembered the first time she saw President Qi at an awards ceremony wearing a haute couture gown. On the inside of her wrist, there was a light brown burn scar—it was from being splashed by the clay pot while brewing Chinese medicine for her. The other person had covered it with concealer for three years until she herself covered it with a blue snowflake temporary tattoo.

Ms. Qi finally relented and lay down on her side, her suit and tie making her way onto the narrow hospital bed. She still remembered to prop herself up with her elbows to make room, afraid of pressing on Sang Jiyue's IV line. Her hair brushed against Sang Jiyue's chin, damp and cold from her journey through the snowy night, reminding the latter of that winter night twelve years ago when Ms. Qi braved the snow to bring her a thermos, her hair covered in ice crystals, yet she smiled and said, "Pear soup made with snow water is even sweeter."

“Actually, I’m very scared.” President Qi suddenly spoke, his voice muffled by the pillow, as if afraid of disturbing the beeping of the monitor. “I’m afraid that you’ll be like that year in the rehearsal hall, when the rope broke while you were suspended by wires, and your wristband tore open. I saw the old scar on your wrist bleeding, but I could only stand below the stage counting your heartbeats…”

Sang Jiyue turned around gently, the IV tube stretched out like a silver thread between the two of them. She looked at President Qi's tightly closed eyelashes and saw faint watermarks beneath her beauty mark—this woman who could persuade investors to renegotiate contracts on the spot at the negotiating table was now like a child afraid of losing her starlight, hiding all her fear in the trembling beneath her suit.

“That’s why we turn our scars into stars.” She reached out and touched the silver ring on the other’s ring finger, the engravings gleaming in the moonlight. “Look, the cracks, the pinholes, the stars on the ring are all the gaps where we connect with each other. Just like you said, light comes in through the cracks, and we are each other’s cracks.”

Qi Zong's eyelashes snapped open, and the light surging in her eyes reminded Sang Jiyue of the night of the charity theater's premiere, when the lights in the gaps in the dome lit up simultaneously, illuminating countless wristbands, prosthetics, and hearing aids shimmering in the audience—those gaps that had once been hidden had become part of the constellation in their stories.

At five o'clock in the morning, Mr. Qi's phone vibrated beside his pillow. It was a message from Pojian: "I dreamed that the string lights in the theater were connected to the hospital! Every star was saying 'Mr. Qi, go to sleep!'" The attached picture was a childlike doodle. Two people holding hands had glowing IV tubes floating above their heads, surrounded by blue snowflakes that seemed to be yawning.

Looking at the unconscious curve of President Qi's lips, Sang Jiyue suddenly realized that the so-called "inheritance of imperfection" is never about mending wounds alone, but about allowing two souls with flaws to become each other's starlight anchors over the long years. Just like now, watching President Qi's brows gradually relax in the morning light, she finally understood that they had already planted everlasting blue snowflakes in each other's cracks—those things that were once thought to be flaws had ultimately become gentle gaps where love could find a place to rest.

Morning light streamed through the blinds, casting stripes of light and shadow on President Qi's impeccably tailored suit. She was kneeling beside the bed, using a cotton swab dipped in warm water to wipe Sang Jiyue's fingertips—still smeared with pear pulp from last night's porridge feeding, like stars fallen on snow. Sang Jiyue gazed at the other's dangling earrings and suddenly remembered that they were blue snowflake silver ornaments she'd won at last year's charity auction. At the time, President Qi's hand holding the bidding paddle was steadyer than hers when she held the trophy, yet she said, "This is a medal for our shortcomings."

“The nurse said the IV can be removed today.” President Qi didn’t look up, her fingertips avoiding the tattoo on the inside of her wrist, as if it were an untouchable treasure. “Po Jian just messaged me saying the theater’s motion-sensor lights are working perfectly. When two people wearing different bracelets get close, the lights will merge into a complete blue snowflake—” She suddenly paused, a cotton swab leaving a ring of water between her fingers, “Just like when we first met in the audition room, you had a chipped wristband, and I had unspoken heartache.” Sang Jiyue chuckled softly, her chest heaving, causing the IV tube to sway slightly: “So you felt sorry for me back then? I thought you just thought I was a rough diamond that could be polished.” She looked at the sudden blush on President Qi’s ears, remembering twelve years ago in the agent’s office, when the agent pushed the contract towards her, tapping the “penalty clause” three times with his fingertip: “This is empty, because I believe you won’t let yourself fall into the crack.”

A gentle knock sounded on the ward door, and the attending physician entered, carrying the patient's medical record. His gaze lingered briefly on Mr. Qi's kneeling posture, and the smile behind his glasses was barely concealed. "Mr. Qi wrote three pages of instructions at the nurses' station yesterday, even marking the turning angles with asterisks." He opened the record. "However, the patient is recovering very well; just be careful to rest your vocal cords—"

“She’ll be staying at my apartment,” President Qi suddenly interjected, speaking so quickly it sounded like she was discussing contract terms. “There’s professional physiotherapy equipment there, and a 24-hour throat-soothing diet plan.” Sang Jiyue saw her pull a small notebook from her suit pocket, the cover adorned with a cartoon blue snowflake drawn by Pochan. “She does nebulizer treatments every morning at 10 AM, and must take a nap at 3 PM. Before napping, she can’t read scripts for more than half an hour—”

“President Qi.” Sang Jiyue suddenly reached out and pressed her hand against the cold back of her hand. After the doctor suppressed a laugh and left the ward, she said softly, “Have you memorized the agent’s manual? Or…” Her fingertips traced the burn scar on the back of the other’s hand, “Are you more afraid that you won’t be able to take good care of me?”

Mr. Qi's Adam's apple bobbed, and he suddenly pulled a velvet box from his trench coat pocket—not the silver ring, but a smaller box still warm from his body. When he opened it, Sang Jiyue saw a blue snowflake brooch made of broken diamonds. Each petal was made from "broken tokens" that the two of them had collected over the years: broken mirrors from the audition room, an old keyboard cap from the basement, and the first broken lamp in the charity theater.

“On the day you fainted,” President Qi’s voice was as soft as a drop of fluid from an IV drip, “I found your wristband backstage and discovered a note inside. It was something you wrote when you first started out: ‘If you ever can’t hold on, show President Qi your cracks.’” She pinned the brooch to the collar of Sang Jiyue’s hospital gown, her fingertips tracing the hollow of the other’s collarbone. “Actually, I’ve known all along that every crack in your heart is a crack in my heartbeat.”

The siren of an ambulance came from outside the window, but it couldn't dispel the light flowing in the ward. Sang Jiyue looked at the sparkling diamonds on the brooch in the morning light and suddenly remembered what President Qi had said on a stormy night: "I used to think that an agent should be like a lighthouse, just to light the way for the artist. Later I realized that the lighthouse itself also needs an anchor point - and you are my anchor in the storm."

My phone vibrated on the bedside table. It was a news link from my assistant: "Details of General Manager Qi's Hospital Care Revealed; Industry Insiders Rumored that the 'Iron-Blooded Agent' Has a Tender Side." The accompanying photo showed General Manager Qi bending down to adjust Sang Jiyue's wristband. A silver ring was visible on the cuff of his suit sleeve, overlapping with the blue snowflake wristband on Sang Jiyue's wrist to form star trails in the shot.

"Do you want to clarify?" Sang Jiyue shook her phone, looking at President Qi's shoulders tense up instantly, and suddenly laughed out loud, "Actually, I want them to know that the agent who said 'scars are the best medals for actors' when signing the contract has a needle mark on his own ring finger that shines brighter than any medal."

Suddenly, President Qi grabbed her hand and pressed the blue snowflake brooch into their palms, which were pressed together. "Do you know why we chose small diamonds?" She looked at Sang Jiyue's puzzled eyes and let out a very soft laugh. "Because a complete diamond is too dazzling, while the blue snowflake made up of small diamonds is like us—every crack is shining, yet they fit together and become starlight that no one can separate."

As the afternoon sun streamed through the window, Sang Jiyue leaned against the headboard, flipping through President Qi's notebook. The latest page depicted the renovated theater's "Starlight Corridor": sensor-activated tiles embedded in the floor illuminated corresponding year's memories with each step—the warm light of the basement in 2013, the red carpet at the 2018 awards ceremony, the premiere of the charity theater in 2024. On the very last page, a line of small print was circled in red: "In 2025, take Jiyue to see the aurora borealis, and plant real blue snowflakes in the cracks."

“President Qi.” Sang Jiyue closed her notebook, looking at the back of the person adjusting the atomizer, and suddenly felt her throat no longer tight. “Actually, I’ve known for a long time that the gentleness you hide is more than the diamonds on your suit. Just like you always say that my flaws are stars, but you don’t know that every stormy night you shielded me from was the brightest moonlight in my life.”

As Ms. Qi turned around, the white mist from the nebulizer billowed up, blurring her reddened eyes. She walked over and put a custom-made throat mask on Sang Jiyue, her fingertips lingering on her temple for three seconds—that was twelve years ago in the audition room, the first time she had the urge to brush away the stray hairs from this stubborn girl's head.

"It's time for nebulization." She turned her face away to adjust the IV stand, her voice trembling slightly. "The blue snowflakes on the face mask are a new design from Breaking the Cocoon; they will change color according to your body temperature." Sang Jiyue looked at the pale blue dots that lit up the edge of the face mask and suddenly understood that they had already woven their gaps into a starlight net that could withstand all wind and snow.

As dusk deepened, Mr. Qi's phone vibrated again; it was a video from a teacher at a primary school in the mountains. The camera panned across the gap in the classroom ceiling, each light adorned with handwritten blessings from the children: "Stars for Sister Jiyue, moon for Mr. Qi." At the end of the video, Pojian ran into the frame holding a painting. In the painting, two people holding hands stood in the center of a crack, surrounded by glowing blue snowflakes, and deep within the crack, the golden outline of the characters "Cheng Que" (承缺, meaning "inheriting the deficiency") was faintly visible.

Gazing at the flickering candlelight in the video, Sang Jiyue suddenly grasped President Qi's hand, letting their silver rings touch in front of the camera. The gaps and marks overlapped in the light and shadow, much like the path they had walked over the years—each scar becoming an entrance to a story, each crack a channel for starlight. And now, in the hospital ward, amidst the white mist of the nebulizer, in their intertwined palms, they finally understood that true fulfillment is never about mending alone, but about two souls with flaws becoming each other's most complete starlight in love.

The white mist from the nebulizer swirled like a galaxy in the dim light of the monitor. President Qi's fingertips gently traced the pale blue veins on Sang Jiyue's wrist—marks left from days of IV drips, like crushed blue snowflakes scattered on her pale skin. She suddenly recalled their first meeting twelve years ago in the audition room. Seventeen-year-old Sang Jiyue clutched the application form, her knuckles white but her eyes burning, her cuff still stained with plaster from the basement rehearsal room. At that moment, she knew that this girl with cracks in her heart would become the most unique star trail in her life.

“I’ve revised the aurora itinerary three times,” Ms. Qi suddenly said, pulling a leather notebook from her suit pocket and flipping to the page covered in sticky notes. “I originally wanted to take you to Norway, but there’s an aurora observatory in Finnish Lapland that’s being converted into a charity theater, using elements from your painting ‘Starlight Through the Cracks,’ which you auctioned last year—the floor will be inlaid with sensor tiles, and every step will trigger different stages of your stage performance.” Her fingertips hovered over the page covered in flight itineraries, her voice as soft as mist. “They say that broken starlight can actually illuminate a wider darkness.”

Sang Jiyue gazed at the old train ticket tucked inside her notebook. It was a ticket stub from 2013, taken when they were crammed onto the last bus. At that time, Sang Jiyue had just landed her first minor role, but on her way home late at night, the director's assistant mocked her, saying her voice sounded like a broken gong. Back then, President Qi had kept her throat lozenges in his suit pocket, warming them with his body heat before handing them to her, while he himself was studying voice training programs based on industry reports in the early hours of the morning. Now, her fingertips traced the frayed edges of the pages, and she suddenly grabbed President Qi's wrist, letting the silver ring reflect the light: "You always say I'm radiant, but look, all the storms you've shielded me from over the years have long since solidified into an aurora in my heart that will never melt."

The beeping of the monitor and the distant siren of an ambulance mingled in the twilight. Suddenly, President Qi took out a velvet box from the hidden pocket of his suit. When he opened it, Sang Jiyue saw two silver rings lying quietly on an indigo-blue lining—the one she always wore on her ring finger, with the character "霁" (Ji) engraved on the inside as a star trail, and the new ring President Qi was wearing at the moment, with the character "承" (Cheng) as a crescent moon on the inside. When the two rings were put together, they formed a complete blue snowflake outline.

“During the week you were in a coma,” Ms. Qi’s voice was slightly hoarse as she traced the engravings on the inside of the ring with her fingertips, “I went to Iceland and saw the aurora borealis flowing through cracks like melting starlight on the tundra. The locals said that the moss that grows in every crack in the ground is because fragments of the aurora borealis have fallen there.” She held Sang Jiyue’s hand in her palm, the gaps between the two rings fitting perfectly, “So I had someone melt down the small diamond from the first agent’s brooch and set it into these rings—our scars have finally become starlight that can warm each other.”

As night fell into the ward, Sang Jiyue suddenly pointed to President Qi's suit lapel and chuckled. A brand-new blue snowflake brooch was pinned there, its tiny silver ring model nestled among the diamonds—the very image of their interlocked rings. President Qi's ears burned. He turned away to adjust the IV pump's flow, but as he turned back, Sang Jiyue grabbed his sleeve: "You should have realized long ago, from the moment you shielded me from your manager's insults in the stormy night, from the moment you frantically searched through medical records more frantically than I did when I lost my voice, you were already my anchor, my moonlight, my—" She gazed at the indigo light emanating from the nebulizer's edge and suddenly chuckled, "My diamond stars."

The phone vibrated again; it was a message from Pojian: the children at the mountain primary school had made blue snowflake lights from discarded light bulbs, saying they wanted to hang them all over the starlight corridor of the new theater. Looking at the bouncing light spots in the video, President Qi suddenly remembered what Sang Jiyue said in a public service documentary: "True starlight is never perfect, just as we always move forward with scars, yet every imperfection becomes a guiding light for others."

She bent down to tuck the blanket around Sang Jiyue, her fingertips brushing against the well-worn copy of "An Actor Prepares" on the bedside table—the title page bore a signature from twelve years ago, when she wrote, "To Jiyue, may light shine through the cracks." Now, tucked between the pages were Sang Jiyue's voice training plan during her recovery period, and the theater renovation contract they had jointly signed. On the last page, a line of small print appeared, in Sang Jiyue's handwriting: "Under the aurora borealis of 2025, we will make every crack grow glowing blue snowflakes, just as you taught me—where there is imperfection, starlight will mend it."

The green line on the monitor traced a steady path in the darkness. President Qi leaned against the hospital bed, resting with her eyes closed, her fingertips still gently clasped around Sang Jiyue's wrist. Suddenly, she felt a slight tremor in her palm. Opening her eyes, she saw Sang Jiyue drawing circles on her palm with her other hand, each arc precisely tracing the needle mark on her ring finger—a mark left years ago when she tested drugs on her.

"Do you know why blue plumbago always grows in cracks?" Sang Jiyue's voice, mixed with the vapor from the atomizer, was like cotton soaked in moonlight. "Because it knows that only by experiencing the gaps in the snow and wind can it catch the brightest starlight." She looked at the white mist falling on President Qi's hair, then suddenly leaned closer and gently kissed the eye of the needle on her ring finger. "And you, you have long since filled every gap in my life with an aurora that will never be extinguished."

The ambulance siren outside the window faded into the distance, and the faint light from the monitor flowed across two overlapping rings. Suddenly, President Qi recalled the first time she took Sang Jiyue to a play. As the performance ended, the little girl pointed to the spotlight on the stage and said, "I wish I could be that kind of light." At that time, she touched Sang Jiyue's shoulder, chafed by the costume, and whispered, "True light is never afraid of cracks, because every crack is a place where light shines through."

At this moment, watching Sang Jiyue's breathing gradually become steady under the fogging mask, she finally understood that they had already planted a starlight more dazzling than the aurora in the cracks between them—it was the mutual support of countless days and nights, the medals woven from scars and needle marks, and the inextinguishable tenderness that overflowed from the depths of each other's lives when two souls learned to bear imperfection.

As the morning light spilled across the frame of the monitor, Sang Jiyue's fingertips unconsciously caressed the old scar on President Qi's hand—a mark left three years ago when she shielded her from a runaway track light on set, a pale brown crescent moon diagonally across a vein. President Qi had wrinkled his suit sleeve while dozing against the headboard last night, and Sang Jiyue was now gently smoothing it out with her fingertips, her movements as light as smoothing a page of sheet music soaked with rain.

"Temperature 36.7°C, blood oxygen 98°C." As the nurse pushed open the door, President Qi quickly sat up straight, her fingertips jotting down the latest data in her phone's memo app. Sang Jiyue looked at the faint dark circles under her eyes and suddenly recalled the scene she had witnessed outside the ICU last week: President Qi was leaning against a bench in the corridor, her suit jacket draped over her lap, clutching the fifth revised version of the theater's acoustic design drawings in her hand, her eyelashes casting butterfly-wing-like shadows on her eyelids. Yet, the moment the nurse opened the door, she opened her eyes instantly, her pupils not even having time to adjust their focus before asking, "Is she awake?"

"You can be transferred to a regular ward today." The nurse's words made President Qi's shoulders tremble slightly. When she looked down, Sang Jiyue saw her quietly turn the ring on her ring finger halfway around—it was a habit they had shared last night, as if this would embed the other's warmth more tightly into their bones. A commotion came from outside the ward. Xiao Zhou, who had emerged from her cocoon, rushed in holding a tablet. On the screen were pictures of the theater construction site sent by the Finnish team: the blue snowflake pattern made of sensor bricks gleamed with a metallic luster in the morning light, and a star track device made of crushed diamonds was being installed on the dome of the central stage, each diamond corresponding to a character name that Sang Jiyue had played.

“They said the aurora season in Finland has started earlier than usual.” Xiao Zhou’s voice was filled with excitement, but she immediately fell silent when she saw President Qi frown—she knew that her boss was most concerned about Sang Jiyue’s health at that moment. But Sang Jiyue smiled, her fingertips tracing the unfinished stage on the screen: “Remember to tell them to lower the sensitivity of the sensor tiles in the ‘Crack’ scene.” She turned to look at President Qi, her eyes reflecting the blue light of the screen, “Back when we were practicing crying scenes in the basement, you always said that if I stomped my feet too hard, it would damage my vocal cords. Now we can’t let the audience trigger the seventeen-year-old’s voice-breaking moment every time they step on my feet.”

Suddenly, President Qi reached out and adjusted the elastic band of her atomizing mask, her fingertips pausing as they brushed past her ear—where a tiny blue snowflake earring was hidden, a silver piece they'd bought in Iceland. Back then, Sang Jiyue had been lying on the tundra photographing the aurora borealis, her nose red from the cold, yet she insisted on donating half her salary to a local environmental organization. "Adjust the sensitivity to medical-grade standards," President Qi said to Xiao Zhou, then turned to Sang Jiyue, her voice softening, "What you need now is—" "To see the premiere under the aurora borealis with you," Sang Jiyue interrupted, suddenly grasping her hand and pressing it to her chest, "Every crack here has long been filled with courage by you."

The transfer to the next ward went more smoothly than expected. Sang Jiyue insisted on walking on her own, and President Qi stayed by her side without leaving her side, his palm loosely encircling her waist, as if protecting a fragile piece of glass. As they passed the nurses' station, the nurses on duty secretly glanced at the two "sisters" who always wore suits. Someone recognized the silver ring on Sang Jiyue's wrist—the entertainment section had once captured a close-up of her at a charity gala, at which time no one knew that the inside of the ring was engraved with star trails representing "Cheng" and "Ji".

The afternoon sun slanted into the new ward. Mr. Qi was unpacking the clothes he'd brought when a crumpled envelope suddenly fell out of his trench coat pocket. Sang Jiyue, with her sharp eyes, noticed the postmark "Winter 2014" on the seal—the period right after her vocal cord repair surgery. "These are the fan letters you didn't open back then?" she asked, reaching for the envelope. But her breath caught in her throat when she saw the words on the back—written in red pen, "A broken voice doesn't deserve to be an actress," and the postmark date was the day she was on the operating table.

Mr. Qi paused, snatched the envelope from her hand, and threw it into the trash can: "It should have been thrown away a long time ago." But Sang Jiyue had already seen the corner of the envelope peeking out, where Mr. Qi had written a note in black pen: "Her voice is like the clear sound of ice cracking, fragile at first, but able to resonate in silence for a long time."