After I died, they cried in the live studio

"Would you like me to stick the stars on the device?" President Qi crouched down, offering the half-person-high, withered wooden heart. Xiao Tai nodded solemnly. The moment her fingertips grasped the butterfly sticker, the fiber optic light suddenly burst forth with a rainbow-like halo, shattering into a flowing galaxy in her pupils. The backstage staff all stopped, watching the little girl take two steps back, covering their mouths as they stared at the lit "wings" on the device—the light was tracing the shape of her scar, outlining a breathing star map on the wood.

"Jiyue, ten minutes to go." The stage manager's voice trembled, whether from nervousness or emotion, it was hard to tell. As Sang Jiyue turned around, President Qi suddenly noticed a patch of sweat on her back—under the spotlight, in front of millions of eyes, this eternally perfect star was now like a real "apple bitten by God," revealing its most authentic flaw to the world without reservation.

Thirty seconds before the curtain rose, Sang Jiyue suddenly grabbed President Qi's wrist and pressed her hand against the sensor area of ​​the device. The two scars touched the moss simultaneously, and the fiber optic lights suddenly illuminated with a warm gold, like the desk lamp in the old dean's office, like the headlights of the last bus twelve years ago, like the light in the eyes of all the children backstage at this moment. "Do you remember our first argument?" Her voice mingled with the cheers from the audience. "You said the entertainment industry couldn't tolerate imperfection, and I said—"

“Imperfection is the brightest starlight.” President Qi continued, watching the platform slowly rise, Sang Jiyue’s figure gradually enveloped by the shattered mirrors of the dome. Those mirrors reflected the backstage scene: Yangyang running with a painting in hand, Xiaotai smiling as she touched the butterfly on the device, volunteers pinning star stickers on late children. And in the gaps between all the interplay of light and shadow, she saw her own photo from twenty years ago projected onto the edge of the dome, the burn scar on the little girl’s arm now being lifted by millions of starlight, becoming the most unique trajectory in the galaxy.

As the first line of the song began, Ms. Qi touched the tin box in her canvas bag, inside which lay the lucky star from twelve years ago. She suddenly understood that the "fragrance at the crack" the old director had mentioned was never a solitary fragrance, but rather like moss meeting light, like a scar meeting starlight, like them meeting each other—the bonds that grow in the cracks will eventually allow every apple that has been bitten by fate to shine with its own unique light in its own galaxy.

The backstage monitors silently recorded this scene: President Qi leaned against the side curtain, watching Sang Jiyue on stage, watching the flickering starlight on the installation, watching the children holding up their cell phone lights in the audience—those points of light converged into a river, overflowing all the cracks that were once thought insurmountable. And she knew that in a more distant place, in the activity room of some orphanage, in an art class at some special school, in the moment when a child first showed their scar, their own starlight was quietly sprouting in the cracks.

As Sang Jiyue's voice echoed under the broken dome, President Qi heard the rustling of papers behind him. Turning around, he saw Xiao Tai holding the tour booklet, her fingertips brushing against the scar sticker numbered 001 on the insert—her butterfly sticker, accompanied by a wish written in pinyin by the little girl: "I want the light on my wings to illuminate the nights when my mother sheds tears." Tucked inside the booklet was a snapshot, a scene Sang Jiyue had secretly taken backstage when President Qi was kneeling to apply gold powder to Yangyang: above two overlapping scars on her wrists, Yangyang was licking her fingertips covered in gold powder, as if tasting the stars.

Suddenly, the rising platform in the center of the stage sank, revealing a moss landscape hidden beneath—a star map pieced together from three hundred pots of different moss varieties. Each cluster of moss had a miniature projector embedded in its center, transforming photos of the children's scars into flowing nebulae. When Sang Jiyue sang the chorus, "The crack is the entrance to light," Xiao Tai suddenly broke free from the volunteer's hand, ran to the edge of the landscape, squatted down, and carefully pressed her butterfly sticker into the corresponding position. The projector instantly lit up, projecting a butterfly shadow ten times larger onto the moss from the burn scar on the back of her neck. The fiber optic lights along the edges of the wings flickered in rhythm with the song, as if it were truly about to fly out of the crack.

The cameras in the media area all focused on this scene. A reporter suddenly stood up—Mr. Qi recognized her as the director of the documentary "The Aesthetics of Imperfection," who had followed them for three months last year. At this moment, the director's camera was capturing Xiaotai's expression as she looked up at the stage. In the little girl's eyes, countless figures of Sang Jiyue were reflected by the shattered mirror, and each figure was singing: "Your flaw is not a punishment, but a place reserved for you by the Milky Way."

Suddenly, a stagehand's choked voice came through the backstage walkie-talkie: "Sister Qi, look at row 12 in the audience!" Ms. Qi peered through the side curtain and saw a boy in a blue school uniform rolling up his sleeves and making a heart shape with his hands in front of his phone's flashlight. The surgical scar on his forearm glowed pink under the light. His mother, sitting next to him, was wiping away tears and holding up a light board: "My son said that his scar is a crater from a star falling down and hitting him."

As the singing faded, Sang Jiyue walked to the installation, removed Xiaotai's butterfly sticker, and whispered into the microphone, "Now, I want to return this star to its owner—" She stepped off the stage, knelt down in front of Xiaotai under the spotlight, and gently placed the sticker back on the child's neck. "But do you know? Just now, your light has already entered the eyes of everyone here." The audience suddenly fell silent until a sob was heard from a corner, followed by waves of applause, like stars colliding with each other.

Mr. Qi pulled out his phone and found that within twenty minutes, the topic "The Milky Way in the Cracks" had become a trending topic. The top-ranked video was of Xiaotai applying a sticker, with the caption: "It turns out that scars really can glow, as long as you dare to let them meet the light." In the comments section, some people shared photos of their own scars, some recounted the courage they had to wear short sleeves for the first time, and many more tagged the "starlight guardians" around them—just as they had once warmed each other on the last bus, millions of people were now sharing warmth in front of their screens.

At the celebration banquet after the tour, President Qi hid on the hotel rooftop and opened the old director's letter—a letter she would reread at every important moment. On the yellowed paper, the old director had written in blue-black pen: "Cheng Cheng, don't be afraid to turn your wounds into stories, because every story will find an ear waiting for it." As the wind lifted the letter, she saw Sang Jiyue emerging from the stairwell, holding a moss cake given to her by the children. The cake had a crooked apple-shaped cutout drawn on the cream with chocolate sauce, and twelve candles were inserted into the cutout.

“Make a wish, Cheng Cheng’s manager,” Sang Jiyue placed the cake on the stone table, the candlelight flickering in the night breeze but never going out. “This time, you can’t say ‘May Jiyue win an award’ or ‘May the box office be a huge success.’ You have to say what you really want.” President Qi gazed at the city lights in the distance, recalling the golden specks of light in Yangyang’s painting backstage, and the message from Xiaotai’s mother that “she offered to take a shower tonight.” He suddenly realized that he no longer needed to make a wish—those places that he once thought were gaps had long been filled into the brightest galaxy by Sang Jiyue, by the children, and by everyone willing to plant starlight in the cracks.

As she blew out the candle, Sang Jiyue suddenly pulled something from her pocket and handed it to her—a small silver pendant shaped like two overlapping apples with a shard of glass embedded in the middle, picked up from the old director's office. "I found this when I was sorting through her belongings at the orphanage last time," Sang Jiyue said, putting the necklace on her wrist. The pendant rested perfectly on the scar on her wrist. "The old director said apples are sweeter when they come in pairs, just like us."

The night breeze carried the distant rumble of the subway. Looking at the neon lights across the river, Ms. Qi suddenly understood that their story was never a one-way street—she had waited for light in the fire escape, and Sang Jiyue had offered warmth on the last bus; now, the children they illuminated would become starlight for others. Just like now, the frosting on the cake clung to Sang Jiyue's fingertips as she smiled and sent a video to Xiaotai. In the video, the little girl pressed her frosting-covered fingers onto the moss installation, causing the fiber optic lights to illuminate in new colors.

My phone vibrated; it was the financial report for the charity project: the proceeds from the first stop of the tour were just enough to buy the sunny activity room at the rehabilitation center. In the remarks column, General Manager Qi wrote: "Name it 'The Old Director's Apple House,' decorate the walls with broken mirrors and moss, and leave a crack-shaped vent—so that every child can see how the light comes in through the gap and how it flows from their hands to farther places."

Suddenly, Sang Jiyue pointed to the river and exclaimed in surprise. A Kongming lantern, released by someone, was floating by, its surface painted with crooked apples and stars. The light reflected off the gap in their necklaces, like the old dean smiling from the clouds. President Qi grasped Sang Jiyue's hand, feeling the warmth of her fingertips—a warmth warmer than starlight, a tenderness more precious than perfection, tinged with a stinging pain.

So this is their Milky Way: not something unreachable suspended in the sky, but a warm, scarred feeling held in the palm of your hand; not a solitary brilliance, but starlight growing from countless cracks, weaving together and illuminating each other, allowing every apple bitten by fate to bloom with a unique sweetness that can warm the whole world from its own gap.

Three months later, on the autumnal equinox, "The Old Director's Apple House" was completed on the top floor of the rehabilitation center. General Manager Qi stood at the door, clutching the as-built blueprints, and saw Sang Jiyue squatting on the floor, patching broken mirror mosaics with the children—the irregularly shaped lenses were salvaged from discarded stage equipment from a tour, each edge left with a hand-polished rough edge, like deliberately preserved "cracks." Xiao Tai held a glue gun, pressing a butterfly-shaped lens below the vent. Sunlight streamed through the lens, casting shimmering spots of light on the ground, landing precisely on her new sleeveless dress.

“Aunt Qi, look!” Yangyang leaned out of his wheelchair and pointed to the moss map on the wall. “This is the mountain in my hometown. The cracks are the traces left by the cable car!” He used fluorescent green moss to outline the mountain range, and the winding fiber optic lights in the middle simulated the direction of the scars. “When the moss grows old in the spring, little white flowers will bloom in the cracks, just like stars growing on my surgical scars.”

As President Qi touched the uneven mirror tiles on the wall, she suddenly felt a peculiar fragment—on the back, written in marker, were the words "Last Bus, December 24, 2013," secretly carved by Sang Jiyue. A snowy night twelve years ago flashed before her eyes; back then, she had half a roasted sweet potato in her pocket, the burn scar on her palm pressed against the frayed edge of Sang Jiyue's scarf. She never imagined that this detail would be remembered by the other as an eternal star trail.

In a corner of the Apple House stands the moss installation from the first stop of the tour. Now it's no longer an exhibit, but a "starlight diary" for the children—Little Moss adds new fiber optic pieces next to the butterfly stickers every day, and Yangyang uses wheelchair spokes to press wheel tracks into the moss. The latest mark is a string of crooked pinyin: "Scars are not mistakes, they are doors to light." Next to the metal nameplate at the bottom of the installation, someone has glued a miniature apple out of modeling clay, with a matchstick stuck in the notch, like a small sun ready to be lit at any moment.

"Jiyue, it's time for the audition." President Qi waved his phone; the screen displayed the final announcement from the "Crack Dancer" production team. Sang Jiyue removed her silver-dust-covered gloves, the "Moss" necklace around her neck brushing against the mirror tiles, refracting countless tiny spots of light, like stars scattered in every corner of the Apple House. Before leaving, she suddenly turned around and called out to the children who were watering the moss, "Next week I'll take you to the theater to see the set! It rains from the dome there, and the raindrops are made of stars!"

In the elevator, Sang Jiyue suddenly took out her phone and pulled out a secretly filmed video: Yesterday at the Apple House, a new child named Xiaoyu was sticking his scar sticker on the "heart" of the device. It was a burn scar that stretched from his left shoulder to his wrist. He was tense all over as he was applying it, until the fiber optic light came on with a pink halo, then he suddenly looked up and smiled at the volunteers, as if he had discovered a door to a new world.

"Do you think how many kids will dare to unwrap their bandages when 'Crack Dancer' is released?" Sang Jiyue traced Xiaoyu's smiling face in the video with her fingertips, then suddenly grasped President Qi's hand, pressing their scars together through their sleeves. "Just like the old dean said, every apple's crack is waiting for the right light, and what we need to do is be the one holding the light."

At the audition, the production team was stunned by the butterfly sticker newly applied to the back of Sang Jiyue's neck—she insisted on not covering her scars, saying, "A dancer's glory shouldn't be hidden behind foundation." When she put on the specially made transparent dance costume, the scars were clearly visible under the spotlight, yet with each spin, they overlapped with the moss projection on her back, like butterflies truly growing from the cracks. Watching from the monitoring room, President Qi suddenly remembered the message on the wall of the Apple House—written by Xiao Tai in crayon, "Thank you for turning my scars into wings," which now fluttered in her heart with Sang Jiyue's dance.

On a rainy autumn night, General Manager Qi was in his office reviewing the second phase of the "Star Project." The neon lights outside the window reflected on the glass, creating a dreamlike web of light that intertwined with the moss lamp on his desk. A private message popped up on his phone—a photo from an unknown account: a sixteen-year-old girl wearing an off-the-shoulder sweater, making a peace sign in front of a mirror, star stickers adorning the surgical scar below her collarbone, captioned: "After watching Sister Sang's tour, for the first time I realized that my 'Apple Cleft' is actually quite cute."

She touched the shape of the girl's scar in the photo when she suddenly heard the office door being pushed open. Sang Jiyue rushed in, carrying a soaking wet canvas bag, her hair dripping wet, and a thermos in her arms: "I brought you pear soup made by Aunt Zhang from the orphanage. She said it's the best for treating a sore throat—" Before she could finish speaking, she saw the private message that President Qi was reading, and suddenly squatted down, burying her face in his knees, her voice muffled: "Cheng Cheng, do you know? Just now at the hospital, a grandma held my hand and said that her grandson had your picture pasted on his bedside, saying that the scar looked like the sunlight on your arm."

Mr. Qi stroked her damp hair, recalling the design of the cracks in the windows of the Apple House—rainwater would flow along the broken mirrors into the moss pool inside, forming a natural water cycle. He realized that true starlight is never a handout, but rather like this, flowing, refracting, and growing within each other's lives. Just like now, the silver ornament around Sang Jiyue's neck brushed against her old wound, the steam from the pear soup mingled with the yellowed old photograph—all the pain and warmth brewed into the sweetest light within the cracks.

When they left the office in the early morning, the two shared a tattered umbrella. Sang Jiyue suddenly pointed to a puddle under a streetlamp and laughed, "Look, our shadows overlap in the water, and the scars just make up a complete apple." President Qi looked down and saw that in the two overlapping shadows, the scar on her wrist and the silver ornament around Sang Jiyue's neck really did form an apple with a gap in it, and at the gap, the light from the streetlamp was constantly falling, like the "special fragrance" that the old dean had described, overflowing from their lives and spreading to a wider world.

The rain was still falling, but it was no longer cold. President Qi knew that in the apple house of some orphanage, Xiao Tai was tucking newly grown moss into a letter; on the set of "Crack Dancer," Xiao Yu asked for a close-up shot for the first time; on countless starlit nights, countless children who had once hidden in the cracks were slowly reaching out to catch their own ray of light—and she and Sang Jiyue would continue to be the ones holding the lamp, until every crack became a channel of light, until all the apples could exude their unique sweetness in each other's galaxies.

The global premiere of *The Crack Dancer* was scheduled for Christmas Eve. President Qi stood at the theater entrance, watching the moss-covered pillars on either side of the red carpet shimmer in the snow—each pillar etched with the imprints of children's scars, fiber optic lights flowing along the lines of those scars, like a breathing starlight net woven into the winter night. As Sang Jiyue's silver gown swept across the floor, the shards of mirror on her skirt reflected the light and shadow of the moss-covered pillars, creating a flowing galaxy on the old wounds on her calves.

"Sister Qi, Xiaoyu is coming!" The assistant rushed over, phone in hand. The screen showed live footage from the orphanage: Xiaoyu was wearing a brand-new white shirt, fastening his own designed star-studded cufflinks to his cuffs—made from a silicone model of his burn scars and coated with fine gold leaf. The camera panned across the message wall in the Apple House, where the latest note read: "Today I taught my deskmate to recognize my scars, and she said they look like the Milky Way falling on my arm."

The dome of the premiere theater simulated the shattered mirrors from the tour. When the lights dimmed, thousands of beams of light leaked through the cracks in the lamps, weaving a flowing net of light across the audience. When the first shot appeared on the screen—Sang Jiyue, playing a dancer, huddled in a fire escape, sunlight weaving golden threads on the scars on her back—a gasp suddenly came from the back row. President Qi knew that it was a mother seeing the shadow of her child projected onto the screen.

As the climax of the film played, the dancers on screen tore off their concealers, revealing scars that overlapped with the moss projection under the spotlight. Suddenly, Xiao Tai, a young woman in the audience, stood up, pointed at the screen, and shouted, "That's the light from Aunt Qi's photo!" Her voice echoed in the quiet theater, followed by scattered applause, like stars colliding and gradually coalescing into a galaxy of sound. At the celebration banquet, Sang Jiyue was surrounded by the media. Suddenly, a reporter asked, "I heard you insisted on not using special effects to cover your scars. Is it because of your agent's childhood experiences?" She looked at President Qi in the corner, who was squatting on the floor adjusting the moss lamp on Yangyang's wheelchair. She smiled and shook her head: "No, it's because we all waited for light in the cracks, and later discovered that the brightest light always comes from the courage to face the gaps."

At midnight, President Qi and Sang Jiyue slipped out of the banquet hall and hurried towards the Apple House through the snow. The moment the iron gate opened, warm yellow light and the fragrance of moss wafted in—Aunt Zhang, who was on duty, had left hot cocoa on the table, next to which was a stack of letters from the children. The top one was written by Xiaoyu: "When the sister in the movie turned around, my scar suddenly stopped itching, as if a star had moved in."

Sang Jiyue suddenly pointed to the surveillance screen in the corner and laughed: the footage from the premiere during the day was playing back, and when Xiaotai shouted that line, the middle-aged man sitting next to her—whom President Qi recognized as the CEO of a certain medical aesthetic institution—was secretly wiping away tears. "He contacted us last week, saying he wanted to donate his production line to make children's scar patches," President Qi waved his phone, the screen displaying the letter of intent for cooperation he had just received, "The fragrance from the gap has finally drifted further."

The two sat down beside the mossy landscape. Sang Jiyue suddenly took off her high heels, letting her toes sink into the damp moss: "Do you remember the first time we planted moss at the orphanage? You said they didn't need fertile soil, just a little light to survive." Her ankle was pressed against the scar on President Qi's wrist, and her body heat came through her skin, like a roasted sweet potato twelve years ago, like the old director's palm twenty years ago.

President Qi pulled out a tin box she always carried with her. Inside, besides the lucky stars, were a butterfly hair clip from Xiao Tai, gold glitter stickers from Yang Yang, and starlight cufflinks from Xiao Yu. The "starlight keepsakes" she had collected over the years jingled at the bottom of the box, like countless tiny suns colliding. "The old director was right," she said softly, gazing at the swaying "moss marks" on Sang Jiyue's neck, "Every apple has a notch, so that the light of others can leak in."

The snow fell heavier and heavier, and fine snowflakes leaked in through the vents of the Apple House, landing on the moss installation like a layer of icing on the starlight. Sang Jiyue suddenly stood up, turned on her phone flashlight, and shone it on the broken mirror on the wall. Countless small spots of light danced in the room, landing on the burn scar on President Qi's arm, on the silver jewelry around her neck, and on the butterfly stickers on the installation, finally converging into a blurry apple outline—the spot of light was particularly bright at the notch.

“Look,” Sang Jiyue turned off the flashlight, leaving only the fiber optic light of the device breathing between light and shadow, “the light in the darkness is never alone.” As she spoke, President Qi suddenly saw his own reflection in her eyes, like the little girl in the photo from twenty years ago who had finally grown up, holding countless starlight in her arms, turning the gap into a door that illuminates the world.

At three in the morning, the two huddled together on the small bed in the Apple House, listening to the hum of the heating pipes. Sang Jiyue pulled out the old dean's letter, and as she read the last sentence, "Go and become someone else's crack, let the light leak out between you," she suddenly grasped President Qi's hand, pressing their two scars together even tighter. The snow was still falling outside the window, but the lights of an early morning bus flashed by, like the last bus twelve years ago, carrying two children who were keeping each other warm, heading towards the ever-shining dawn.

Ms. Qi knew the story wouldn't end there. Tomorrow, they would meet with child psychologists to discuss how to introduce moss therapy to more rehabilitation institutions; next week, Sang Jiyue would take "Crack Dancer" to an international film festival, letting starlight illuminate more distant corners; next year, Apple House would be built in three cities, each window designed according to the shape of the scars of local children. And wherever they went, they would carry that worn-out canvas bag, filled with old photos, lucky stars, children's letters—and the courage to always believe that starlight can grow from cracks.

When the snow stopped, Ms. Qi looked through the skylight and saw the morning star twinkling in the pale blue sky. She gently stroked Sang Jiyue's sleeping forehead, recalling that late night in the rehearsal room when the other girl said, "So you've already planted your dream in the cracks." At that moment, she finally understood that dreams are never the moon hanging in the sky, but rather, like them, using scars as seeds and time as nourishment, planting starlight in every crack, so that all the places that were once thought to be gaps eventually grow into a galaxy connecting them all.

Beneath the Milky Way, countless "Little Moss," "Yangyang," and "Little Feather" are waking up, touching their scars and smiling—because they know that somewhere, two people once held hands on the last bus, exchanged starlight in the rehearsal room, and planted moss in the Apple House, so that every apple bitten by God could find its own inextinguishable light in the crack.

As the SUV bumped along the gravel road, Sang Jiyue was stuffing the last tube of lip balm into her canvas bag. In the rearview mirror, Qi Zong's knuckles, gripping the steering wheel, were white, and an old scar on his wrist was faintly visible at the edge of his sun protection sleeve—it was from a steel bar cut three years ago while moving supplies in the earthquake-stricken area, and it was now lightly tapping against the steering wheel with the swaying of the vehicle.

“Aktamu Village is just ahead,” the guide, Xiao Ma, pointed to the rows of yellowish-brown yurts in the distance. “The children are all attending the village school. They say there’s a ‘celebrity teacher’ from Beijing, and he cleaned the classrooms three times yesterday.” Sang Jiyue touched the gold-powdered butterfly sticker in her pocket, suddenly remembering last year at the children’s hospital when Yangyang put the sticker on the back of her hand and said, “Sister’s scars glow.” President Qi pulled a sun hat from the passenger-side storage compartment and put it on her head. The brim was pulled low, just covering the small mole behind her right ear—the “star” that paparazzi had once photographed at the airport.

Light filtered through the mud-brick classroom of the village school. A dozen or so children huddled around faded desks, their school uniform collars turned up to reveal the worn blue of their clothes. As Sang Jiyue stepped inside, a girl in the front row with pigtails suddenly pointed at her and exclaimed, "The sister from TV!" Amidst the murmurs of giggles, President Qi had already subtly stepped in front of her, placing a glass jar containing a miniature moss landscape on the cracked teacher's desk: "Let's play a game. Who can find the 'star' in their palm?"

She lifted the lid of the jar, and the damp greenery mingled with the fragrance of jujube blossoms wafted out. The boy, Alimu, in his patched coat, turned his face away, his sleeve slipping down half an inch to reveal a winding burn scar on his forearm—almost overlapping with the spot where Sang Jiyue had knocked over the pot of traditional Chinese medicine years ago. She crouched down and took out an apple pendant made of local wool felt from her canvas bag: "You know? Every wound is where light gets in." Her fingertips lightly traced Alimu's scar, and the boy abruptly pulled his hand back, staring blankly at the raised patterns on the silver ornament on her wrist.

The afternoon sun slanted into the classroom. Ms. Qi was repairing a leaky window frame, wood shavings falling onto her dark blue overalls. Sang Jiyue squatted in the corner, teaching the children to draw stars on pottery shards with camel thorn. Suddenly, Alimu tugged at her sleeve and slipped a warm stone into her palm—a crookedly painted apple on it, with grains of gold powder embedded in the gaps. “Brother Ma said that Beijing’s Apple House collects stars,” he said, his eyelashes still glistening with sand. “This is for you, as our door.”

As they lit a campfire outside the yurt at dusk, Sang Jiyue noticed President Qi frowning at his phone screen. The trending topic "Sang Jiyue's Frontier Show" was third on the list, accompanied by a picture of her squatting down to talk to Alimu that morning. The camera subtly captured the Cartier bracelet on her wrist—a gift from a charity event sponsored by the brand three years ago, now gleaming coldly in the firelight. "Should we clarify something?" Xiao Ma leaned closer, his tone apologetic. President Qi closed the screen and added a piece of poplar wood to the fire: "No need. Tomorrow, take us to see the 'star crack' the children were talking about."

The so-called "Star Crack" is hidden deep within the rock strata of the Gobi Desert. Within the fissures of the reddish-brown stone surface, several clumps of grayish-green lichen grow. Alimu crouched down, his fingertips lightly touching the substance, more fragile than moss: "Mother said this is the earth's scars blossoming." Sang Jiyue suddenly remembered the old headmaster's dying words, took out the silver apple she always carried, and let the sunlight shine through the gap, casting spots of light on the rock wall—the lichen in the crack instantly trembled slightly at the boundary between shadow and light, like stars lit up.

Returning to the village late at night, General Qi suddenly stopped. In the moonlight, Sang Jiyue stood before the adobe wall, her fingertips tracing the newly sprouted shoots emerging from the cracks. There, children had sculpted tiny suns from clay, crookedly stuck to the cracks, like shining buttons pinned to the mottled earthen wall. “You know what?” General Qi handed her a thermos, the steam condensing into white mist in the cold air, “Back in the rehearsal room, you protected that bottle of moss, even as it fell to the ground, your forehead bleeding, yet you laughed and said, ‘They’re more afraid of pain than I am.’” Sang Jiyue turned, seeing the shimmering starlight reflected in his glasses, and suddenly reached out to remove her baseball cap, letting her short hair fall freely in the wind: “Now I understand, what you were protecting wasn’t just moss, but the light that might grow from every crack.”

Her phone vibrated in her pocket; it was a public opinion report from her studio. Sang Jiyue swiped the screen and saw a comment from Alimu's mother at the top of the comments section: "A girl from Beijing is squatting on the ground applying ointment to my son, saying that her scar and his are 'star twins'." In the accompanying picture, Sang Jiyue's sleeves were half-rolled up, and a silver ornament on her wrist was pasted over the child's scar; the two light brown marks looked like two overlapping crescent moons in the sunlight.

The campfire crackled in the distance. Suddenly, Qi Zong pointed to a crack in the rock: "Look, the way the moonlight leaks in looks just like the vents of the Apple House." Sang Jiyue reached out and caught a grain of sand falling into her palm, suddenly remembering how Alimu had sprinkled gold dust on her ceramic shards during the day—those fine powders, scattered by the wind, would eventually become nourishment for the lichen growing in the cracks of the Gobi Desert one morning. Just like every scar they had borne, it would eventually, at some point, allow light to find its gentlest entrance.

At three in the morning, a soft rustling sound came from outside the yurt. Sang Jiyue lifted the yurt curtain and saw Alimu sitting on the threshold, clutching a sheepskin blanket, with a star-studded night sky behind him. He looked up, his eyes shining like diamonds dropped into the Gobi Desert: "Sister, I dreamt that flying apples grew from the cracks, and stars were falling from the gaps." She put her arm around the child's trembling shoulders and saw General Qi walking from the other side of the yurt, holding ceramic star shards that the children had made during the day—each gap had been carefully coated with gold powder, flickering in the beam of a flashlight, like unmelted moonlight scattered on the ground.

In the distance, the cracks in the rock strata continued to breathe silently, allowing starlight to seep inch by inch into the dry sand. Sang Jiyue suddenly understood that true charity is never about handing out starlight, but about crouching down and seeing the radiant galaxy reflected in each child's eyes—a galaxy that belongs to them. Just like now, Alimu placed his cold fingers into her palm, while President Qi was recording this scene with his phone—in the lens, three shadows overlapped in the starlight of the Gobi Desert, like three lichens rooted in the cracks, brewing their warmth into a faint light illuminating the long night.

As the sandstorm tore through the sky before dawn, Sang Jiyue was mending Alimu's school uniform by the light of a kerosene lamp. The bellowing of livestock came from outside the yurt, and General Qi abruptly flung open the sheepskin curtain and rushed in, his goggles plastered with yellow sand: "Quickly take the children to the village cellar!" Before he finished speaking, the yurt's willow frame began to shake violently, and grains of sand seeped through the yak hair into the collar, like countless tiny teeth gnawing at the skin.

Alimu suddenly released his grip on her clothes and rushed towards the cardboard box in the corner—it contained the ceramic shards the children had made during the day. "Don't touch it!" Sang Jiyue lunged forward to protect the box, but was overturned by the gust of wind. The instant the ceramic shards shattered on the earthen bed, President Qi had already pinned her down, shielding her from the flying fragments. A sandstorm, carrying gravel, rushed in, and through the blur, Sang Jiyue saw blood seeping from an old scar on his brow bone, congealing into a dark red line along the edge of his goggles.

The cellar was crammed with shivering children. Alimu's mother fed the youngest baby with naan bread dipped in goat's milk. Sang Jiyue took off her scarf and wrapped it around the crying girl. Suddenly, she heard President Qi say in the darkness, "Public opinion has reversed." The phone screen flickered in and out of the sandstorm. The trending topic "Sang Jiyue Sandstorm Rescue" was at the top of the list, accompanied by a picture of her back protecting a cardboard box, a silver apple gleaming faintly in the sand.

"It's a video posted by Alimu's mother." General Qi opened the comments section, and the screen was filled with "I'm sorry" and "Salute to the volunteers." Sang Jiyue suddenly remembered that when she was teaching the children to draw stars with camel thorns during the day, Alimu secretly copied her silver jewelry onto parchment—at this moment, that crooked apple pattern was being turned into a meme and went viral online.

On the third day of the sandstorm, the medical team finally arrived. Sang Jiyue squatted outside the makeshift medical tent, distributing lip balm to the children. A doctor in a white coat suddenly pointed to the silver jewelry on her wrist: "The pattern is the same as what I saw in the earthquake zone." President Qi, who was adjusting the satellite phone, suddenly stopped, but Sang Jiyue smiled: "The old director said that everything broken can shine again."

Late at night, the sandstorm finally subsided. General Qi led several herders to inspect the damaged school buildings, while Sang Jiyue stayed in the cellar to read picture books to the children. As the beam of a flashlight swept across the wall, Alimu suddenly pointed to a crack: "Look!" Several tender yellow sand lilies had sprouted there, stubbornly unfurling their leaves amidst the ruins. Sang Jiyue took out a silver apple, letting the moonlight shine through the gap onto the plants, instantly turning the shadows in the crack into illuminated star trails.

“Sister, will our stars be buried by the sand?” The girl with pigtails clutched the hem of her clothes. Sang Jiyue shook her head and took out an apple ornament made of felt from her canvas bag: “You know what? The thicker the sand, the deeper the seeds can grow.” She tied the ornament to the stem of a sand lily, and the felted wool tassels swayed gently in the night breeze, like an inextinguishable flame.

At four in the morning, General Qi brought back devastating news: the village school building had completely collapsed. But miraculously, shards of pottery from the children were embedded in the ruins, and a thin layer of dew had formed at the gaps—in the desert, this was the most precious gift. Sang Jiyue suddenly remembered the old headmaster's dying words and turned to General Qi, saying, "Let's rebuild the school building, using moss and starlight."

The reconstruction project began seven days after the sandstorm. General Qi led the herders in building a framework using poplar wood, while Sang Jiyue taught the children to weave moss mixed with tamarisk branches into an insulation layer. Alimu secretly stuffed sand privet seeds into the moss walls, saying he wanted to make the classroom grow "breathing stars." Online, the hashtag #MossSchoolBuildingProject# continued to gain traction, with countless netizens sending in moss specimens and handmade stars.

On the day of completion, General Manager Qi etched a new pattern on the skylight: two interlaced hands holding a silver apple. As sunlight streamed through the gap, it cast butterfly-shaped patches of light on the ground—the design drawings Xiaoyu had sent from Qinghai. Alimu transplanted the sand privet seedlings to the windowsill, then suddenly pointed into the distance: "Sister, look!" On the horizon, flocks of sandgrouse were skimming over the newly planted saxaul forest, their wings gleaming bronze in the setting sun.

At midnight, the two huddled around a desk in the new school building, organizing supplies. Suddenly, Ms. Qi pulled a metal box from a drawer. Inside was a scarf Sang Jiyue had given her twelve years ago, its edges still bearing the mud stains from the earthquake. "Do you know why I always wear it?" she asked, her fingertips tracing the worn stitches. "Because it was the first gift that made me believe scars could warm someone's heart." (End of Chapter)