After I died, they cried in the live studio

Chapter 181 Frontier Public Welfare
Gazing at the starry sky outside the window, Sang Jiyue suddenly recalled what Alimu had said during the day: "The stars in the desert are actually transformed grains of sand. They fall into cracks and become seeds of light." She grasped President Qi's hand, the silver ornament on her wrist pressed against his scar, the two marks overlapping into a perfect circle in the moonlight. In the distance, the sand dunes rustled in the night wind, like countless tiny starlight breaking through the soil.

My phone vibrated; it was a video from a volunteer in Qinghai: local children had pasted apple patterns on the wall with barley, and three ears of wheat stuck in the gaps. In the video, Xiaoyu's voice carried the winds of the plateau: "Sister, our stars are connected." Sang Jiyue projected the video onto the moss-covered wall of the new school building; countless spots of light danced on the green carpet, like the entire Milky Way falling into the children's palms.

Suddenly, President Qi kissed the stray hairs on her brow bone, where there was a barely visible, faint scar. "Do you know why the air vents at Apple House always have gaps?" Sang Jiyue turned, letting starlight fall into his eyes. "Because light needs an entrance, and our scars have long since become each other's doors."

The lucky star in the glass bottle swayed gently, and someone had drawn a small sun on the corner. The sand rustled outside the window, yet countless tiny spots of light flickered among the moss, as if the entire universe was breathing in this school building of less than ten square meters, turning all the brokenness and cracks into a glimmer of light illuminating the long night.

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 beneath him, using his body to shield her from the flying fragments. A sandstorm, carrying gravel, poured 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, and a silver apple gleaming faintly in the sand.

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: "This pattern... is the same as what I saw in the earthquake zone." President Qi's hand, which 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 her silver apple, letting the moonlight shine through the gap onto the plants, instantly turning the shadows in the crack into illuminated star trails.

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 and suddenly pointed into the distance: "Sister, look!" On the horizon, flocks of sandgrouse were flying 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 that 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 that scars could warm someone's heart."

Gazing at the starry sky outside the window, Sang Jiyue suddenly recalled what Alimu had said during the day: "The stars in the desert are actually transformed grains of sand. They fall into cracks and become seeds of light." She grasped President Qi's hand, the silver ornament on her wrist pressed against his scar, the two marks overlapping into a perfect circle in the moonlight. In the distance, the sand dunes rustled in the night wind, like countless tiny starlight breaking through the soil.

My phone vibrated; it was a video from a volunteer in Qinghai: local children had pasted apple patterns on the wall with barley, and three ears of wheat stuck in the gaps. In the video, Xiaoyu's voice carried the wind of the plateau: "Sister, our stars are connected." Sang Jiyue projected the video onto the moss-covered wall of the new school building; countless spots of light danced on the green carpet, like the entire Milky Way falling into the children's palms.

Suddenly, President Qi kissed the stray hairs on her brow bone, where there was a barely visible, faint scar. "Do you know why the air vents in Apple House always have gaps?" Sang Jiyue turned around, letting starlight fall into his eyes. "Because light needs an entrance, and our scars have long since become each other's doors."

The lucky star in the glass bottle swayed gently; someone had drawn a small sun at the corner. Sand rustled outside the window, yet countless tiny spots of light flickered among the moss, as if the entire universe breathed within this small schoolhouse, less than ten square meters, transforming all the brokenness and cracks into a glimmer of light illuminating the long night. A week later, at a charity gala in Beijing, Sang Jiyue stood under the spotlight, her silver bracelet reflecting shimmering light on the red carpet. When the host asked about frontier charity, she held up the ceramic star shards sent by the children: "True charity isn't about giving away starlight, but about crouching down and seeing the Milky Way reflected in each child's eyes."

Below the stage, President Qi sat in a wheelchair, old photos of the earthquake-stricken area spread out on her lap. The girl who had cried while holding the wounded in the ruins back then was now smiling at Sang Jiyue on the stage. Her phone vibrated; it was a voice message from Alimu: "Sister, the sand vines are blooming. Just like you said, every flower has a gap in the starlight."

As the event ended, Sang Jiyue received an anonymous package. Unwrapping the layers of parchment, she found a silver apple inside, its edges studded with grains of gold dust. The accompanying letter contained only one line: "The apple you gave me in the earthquake zone years ago, I'm returning it to you now." It was signed with a crooked apple drawing—the last painting the old dean had created before his death.

Late at night, the two stood before the transom window of the Apple House, watching the moonlight seep through the cracks and cast butterfly-shaped patches of light on the ground. Suddenly, Mr. Qi said, "You know what? The children in Mongolia are also planting moss walls; they say they want to plant stars in Beijing." Sang Jiyue smiled, tied the silver apple to the transom window, and let the night breeze gently sway it, like a star that would never fall.

In the distance, the Gobi Desert is recovering after the sandstorm, and the tender shoots of sand lichen gleam in the moonlight. Their story, like the lichens rooted in the cracks, will eventually grow into a Milky Way that illuminates the entire night sky, tempered by wind, sand, and starlight.

The morning after the charity gala, Sang Jiyue was sorting packages sent from the border regions in the Apple House warehouse. Seeds of *Potentilla fruticosa* wrapped in parchment fell to the ground, rolling into the moss-covered patterns of broken porcelain in the corner—a star map pieced together by children from broken pottery shards when the first Apple House was built three years ago. General Manager Qi pushed open the door, holding a delivery box covered in small sun stickers, an old scar on his wrist gleaming faintly in the morning light: "Volunteers from Mongolia said they made a 'breathing' wall using camel hair mixed with moss."

A video call suddenly popped up on the phone, Alimu's face filling the screen, with the moss-covered walls of the new school building behind him. He held up a sand privet leaf, its veins studded with fine sand: "Look, sister! It's grown into the shape of a star!" The camera panned across the classroom, where glass bottles sat on every windowsill, filled with the children's collection of "desert starlight"—sand grains baked by the sun, dewdrops from saxaul branches, and miniature apple ornaments woven from tamarisk bark.

Suddenly, President Qi pointed to the air vent in the video: "They replaced the etching with sandgrouse wings." Sang Jiyue leaned closer to look, and indeed, the gap in the wooden window resembled a bird spreading its wings. When the sunlight shone through, it cast trembling shadows on the moss wall, as if it might take flight at any moment, carrying starlight. Her memory suddenly flashed back to the frontier cellar, where the broken pottery shards that Alimu had picked up after the sandstorm were now embedded in the edge of the air vent, the gap carefully filled with gold powder.

“We’re going to Mongolia next week.” General Manager Qi handed over the itinerary, his fingertips tracing the words “Children’s Trauma Repair Workshop.” “They want to bring the ‘Apple House’s’ philosophy of ventilation to the grasslands, saying that the children there are afraid of the wounds left by blizzards.” Sang Jiyue touched the silver apple pendant, suddenly remembering the pieces of silver that the old director had given her before he died. “Back then, you said that the pieces of silver in the ruins could be hammered into an apple, and now it really has grown wings.”

In August, the grasslands of Mongolia shimmer with golden green. Sang Jiyue squats in front of a yurt, watching children draw cracks on cowhide with mare's milk. Naren, a little girl in a blue robe, points to a burn scar on her leg and places a silver apple above the wound: "Will the light fall in from here?" Sunlight shines through the gap in the pendant, casting shimmering spots of light on the brown scar, like shooting stars falling on the grassland.

Inside the yurt, Ms. Qi was adjusting the projector. On the screen, images of sand dunes in Aktamu Village, ears of wheat in Qinghai, and the butterfly-shaped air vent of Nanjing Children's Hospital flashed by. "We've collected 'crack stories' from twenty-seven regions," she said, opening a document. Each entry was accompanied by stars drawn by children. "Children in XJ say the cracks are the earth's eyelashes, and when they blink, they shake off the stars."

While roasting naan around the fire late at night, Naren suddenly placed her icy hand into Sang Jiyue's palm and offered her an apple carved from camel bone. Blue silk thread was wrapped around the cut edge, the very color of the Mongolian grasslands: "Mother said that wounds are mirrors fallen from the sky." The firelight reflected the milk stains on the child's eyelashes, and Sang Jiyue suddenly remembered what Alimu's mother had said after the sandstorm—every crack hides unmelted snowmelt, which will eventually nourish the starlight that takes root.

On the eve of their return journey, General Qi found Sang Jiyue gazing blankly at the starry sky outside the yurt. Her silver apple, tied to the clothesline, rustled softly against the metal frame in the night breeze. "What are you thinking about?" General Qi offered her a hot milk tea, watching her fingertips trace the faint scar on his brow bone. "I remember the first time I saw you, crying while holding the wounded in the earthquake ruins, yet you gave me the last piece of compressed biscuit." Sang Jiyue smiled, dew from the grassland clinging to her eyelashes. "Back then, I felt your tears were hotter than starlight."

My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a message from the BJ team: the Apple House charity documentary had been shortlisted for an international film festival, and Yangyang would be singing the theme song, "Stars in the Cracks"—the boy who once locked himself in the storage room could now smile at the camera, a gold dust butterfly sent by Xiaoyu tucked behind his ear. In the video, Yangyang touched the moss-covered wall and said, "My scars are the nests of stars." As the morning mist of Mongolia drifted into the yurt, Sang Jiyue packed her luggage and found the camel bone apple that Naren had given her tied to Qi Zong's backpack. The blue silk thread at the gap shimmered in the morning light, like a galaxy connecting the grassland and the Gobi Desert. In the distance, Xiao Ma called out, saying he would take them to see the "moving star cracks"—a herd of migrating reindeer crossing the grassland, their hoofprints shimmering in the morning dew, like the earth gently blinking.

As the plane pierced through the clouds, Sang Jiyue gazed at her reflection in the porthole, the silver ornament on her wrist touching the old scar on General Qi's wrist bone across the armrest. Below the clouds, countless vents of apple-shaped houses collected starlight from different lands: some were inlaid with ears of wheat from Qinghai, some with camel bells from Mongolia, and others with grains of sand from Xinjiang. And at each vent, children looked up, letting the light fall into their eyes, growing into their own unique brilliance.

The night they arrived in Beijing, it was pouring rain. The two took shelter in a convenience store, watching the rain carve countless cracks into the glass. Suddenly, Mr. Qi pointed out the window: "Look, the way car headlights shine through the rain curtain." The beams of light meandered through the watermarks, yet remained bright. Sang Jiyue pulled out a lucky star bottle from her canvas bag and discovered a small apple carved from camel bone—Naren said it was a star from the grasslands, capable of taking root in any crack.

As the rain subsided, a message from Alimu popped up on my phone, accompanied by a photo: on the skylight of the new school building, children had arranged sand lily flowers into the shape of a silver apple, with three ears of wheat stuck in the gap. "We sewed a flowery dress for the stars," he said, his voice mingling with the sound of the wind. "Mother said that when the sand lily flowers bloom, the light will climb up the petals into every child's dream."

Looking at the watermarks on the convenience store glass, Sang Jiyue suddenly understood that they had never truly "given" starlight. The light hidden in the cracks already existed in the eyes of every child, in the lichen of the Gobi Desert, in the camel bells of the grasslands, and in the ears of wheat on the snow-capped mountains. All they did was squat down, gently wipe away the dust covering the cracks, and let the light flow out on its own, connecting into a galaxy that spans mountains and seas.

After paying for the hot cocoa, Mr. Qi traced the burn scar on the back of her hand with his fingertips: "Next stop, let's go to Yunnan? The children there say that the scars of the rainforest will flow with honey." Sang Jiyue nodded, looking at her own eyes reflected in his glasses, and the streetlights gradually lighting up outside the window—each light was a small gap, letting light leak into the long night, allowing all those who had once wandered in the cracks to finally see that they themselves were shining stars.

The camel-bone apple in the glass jar swayed gently, clattering softly against the lucky star. The rain stopped, the convenience store doorbell rang, and a little girl carrying a doll ran in, an apple pattern printed on a band-aid on her knee. Sang Jiyue suddenly smiled. She knew that in some distant frontier, on some golden-green grassland, in some moss-covered schoolhouse, another star was raising its head from a crack, ready to embrace the light of the entire universe.

As the lights gradually illuminated the charity school on the edge of the Taklamakan Desert in XJ, Sang Jiyue was squatting on the playground tying the shoelaces of the last child's new sneakers. The April wind, carrying fine sand, swept across her sweat-dampened forehead, but couldn't dispel the sun-kissed smile on her lips—this was the seventh day she and her agent, Mr. Qi, had been traveling across the Gobi Desert, from the Hope Primary School to the herder settlement, with more than ten hours of driving each day leaving identical bruises on their calves.

"Jiyue, the drone is filming the final shots." President Qi's voice came from behind her. Her black suit jacket was casually draped over her arm, revealing a soaked white shirt underneath. She held a bottle of chilled mineral water in her hand, but first handed it to Sang Jiyue, who was squatting on the ground. When her fingertips touched the other's wrist, it felt even cooler than it had been three days ago.

Sang Jiyue tilted her head back and gulped down two mouthfuls of water, her fingertips unconsciously rubbing the water droplets condensed on the plastic bottle: "President Qi, when we post the donation information in the super topic, do you think we should attach a video of the children chasing after the camel caravan?" Her eyelashes still had grains of sand on them, but in the twilight, they shone like stars.

Looking at her sunburnt face, President Qi suddenly pulled a small mirror from his briefcase. "Take care of yourself first. Your flight is in two hours; you need to head straight to the red carpet after landing." His fingertips brushed against the faint dark circles under her eyes, his tone softening. "The makeup artist is waiting at the terminal. The straw in your hair—"

"I know, Mr. Qi!" Sang Jiyue smiled and tossed her long hair, which was braided with colorful ropes, causing bits of grass and fine sand to fall in a rustling sound. "You urged me like this last year in Daliangshan, and as a result, my earrings still had camellia honey on them when I walked the red carpet." Although she said that, she obediently followed him to the SUV parked by the playground. The red light sign "Starlight Charity" on the roof of the car was particularly eye-catching in the dimming light of the sky.

As the plane flew over the Qilian Mountains, Sang Jiyue fell asleep in her first-class seat. President Qi turned off the reading light and, by the moonlight streaming through the window, watched her curled up in a ball—her cashmere coat had slipped down to her waist, revealing a beige cotton T-shirt she'd received for a charity event, the cuffs still stained with indelible child drawings. Her phone screen lit up with the seating chart from the red carpet organizers. She silently added "(Charity Ambassador status)" in parentheses after "Sang Jiyue's" name, paused for two seconds, and then messaged her stylist: "Change the jewelry to the silver and turquoise suit she bought in Kashgar."

When they landed, it was pouring rain. The van was stuck outside the red carpet for twenty minutes. Sang Jiyue watched the lights pierce through the rain through the car window when she suddenly heard President Qi say, "Should we change our clothes first?" She turned around and found that he had unbuttoned his suit jacket, revealing a crisp white shirt underneath, and was stuffing a haute couture dress hanging on the back of the seat into her hands.

"And you?" Sang Jiyue touched the poplar pattern embroidered on her dress and suddenly noticed that President Qi's shirt collar still had wool stains from the pastoral area that morning.

“Me?” President Qi lowered his head and loosened his tie, a cold, aloof smile playing on his lips. “A female CEO walking the red carpet in an Armani suit is enough to make financial reporters scream.” His fingertips gently smoothed her rain-dampened hair. “But you, be careful in your heels later; those blisters from the Gobi Desert—”

"We've arrived!" The driver's voice interrupted the conversation. Sang Jiyue took a deep breath and let President Qi drape a black silk cloak over her shoulders. The moment the car door opened, flashes of light mixed with rain poured down like a silver river.

At the end of the red carpet, in the interview area, the host had just said, "I heard that Ms. Sang just returned from the XJ charity trip—" when Sang Jiyue suddenly staggered half a step in the camera's view. President Qi's hand, which had been in his pocket, immediately reached out and lightly protected her waist. The emerald cufflinks on his suit sleeve brushed against the turquoise waist chain around her waist, making a soft clinking sound.

"I am a little tired." Sang Jiyue steadied herself, looking down at the Kazakh pattern engraved on the silver bracelet on her wrist. "But today on the plane, I received a letter from a child who said they wrapped desert roses in their new book and sent them to me." Her eyes were slightly red when she looked up, but her smile was brighter than the red carpet lights. "President Qi always says I'm like a camel thorn, but actually she is—" Suddenly noticing a blade of grass stuck behind the other's ear, she reached out and picked it off for her. "She's the one who puts her roots in the desert, yet lets starlight fall on her branches."

Ms. Qi turned her face away, but the tips of her ears flushed slightly out of the camera's view. In the distance, the organizer's bell rang, urging them to hurry. She suddenly remembered the scene from seven years ago when they first met in the practice room: a girl with a ponytail practicing dance in front of a full-length mirror, her ankles wrapped with the same silver bracelets as today, turning around and saying, "Sister Qi, I want to bring starlight to every corner that needs it."

As the downpour subsided, Sang Jiyue's gown shimmered with the golden luster of poplar trees under the spotlight, as if she were wearing the entire sunset of the Gobi Desert. President Qi followed half a step behind, watching her skirt sweep across the puddles on the red carpet, and suddenly understood that true starlight is never about shining alone—it's about someone keeping a light on for you in the wind and sand, someone holding up a sky for you under the spotlight, and their journeys will ultimately weave a tapestry more dazzling than the Milky Way on the long road of public service and dreams.

The crystal chandelier at the celebration banquet swirled across the dome. Suddenly, Qi Yanqiu pressed down on Sang Jiyue's hand, which was holding a wine glass. His suit sleeves still bore traces of rain from the red carpet, yet he precisely replaced the champagne in her glass with lukewarm water: "You said you had a sore throat at XJ." As his fingertips brushed against her earlobe, the silver turquoise earring swayed gently, resonating softly with the Buddhist prayer beads on Qi Yanqiu's wrist—they were the beads they had prayed for together at Kumbum Monastery in Qinghai last year when they were helping a charity school.

“Mr. Qi, there’s still some grass behind your ear.” Sang Jiyue suddenly tiptoed closer to her ear, watching the tip of her ear turn red at a visible speed. She suddenly remembered their first encounter in the practice room seven years ago. At that time, Qi Yanqiu had just returned from abroad, standing in front of the full-length mirror in a sharply tailored suit, while she was hiding in a corner, secretly wiping away tears. “Why did you choose me?” she remembered asking, sobbing, but the other person squatted down to look her in the eye, his fingertip touching the silver bracelet on her wrist: “Because when you dance, the bracelet makes a star-like sound.”

"I heard Miss Sang's charitable donation this time is as high as seven figures?" A microphone suddenly approached, interrupting her recollection. As Sang Jiyue turned around, Qi Yanqiu's hand was already quietly on her waist—a gesture that appeared appropriate in the media's view, but only she knew that his palm was gently rubbing her old injury on her side. "The details of the donation have been published on the charity platform." Sang Jiyue held up her phone, the screen scrolling with thank-you letters written by children in crooked handwriting, "Every penny was used for building new school buildings and buying books, even my plane ticket was paid for out of my own pocket."

"But some netizens questioned whether you were using charity for self-promotion," the reporter persisted. Just as Sang Jiyue was about to speak, Qi Yanqiu suddenly snatched the phone from her hand and turned the screen towards the camera: "This is Guli, the girl we're sponsoring in Kashgar. She just sent us her first copy of 'Andersen's Fairy Tales' that she bought with her scholarship money. In the video, the Uyghur girl is holding the pink-covered book, her eyelashes still covered in bits of hay from the sheepfold. She asked me, 'Can Snow White's dress be as red as a desert rose?' This is the true meaning of our charity work."

The chandeliers in the banquet hall suddenly dimmed, and the large screen began playing a documentary about the XJ charity trip. In the footage, Sang Jiyue squatted on the sand teaching children to draw rainbows, while Qi Yanqiu's hand, holding a reflector, trembled slightly under the blazing sun. The naan bread given by the herders was shared with lost tourists, while they themselves ate dry, hard compressed biscuits. The scene froze on the last day, where the children chased the off-road vehicle for two kilometers. Qi Yanqiu rolled down the window and held out her hand; in her palm lay a dozen desert rose stones—collected by the children during their free time in the Gobi Desert.

“These stones will be auctioned off for charity.” Sang Jiyue picked up a glass case on the display stand, inside which were silver ornaments inlaid with desert roses. “The proceeds will be used to support twenty girls from Xinjiang to complete their university studies.” As she turned, the hem of her skirt brushed against Qi Yanqiu’s suit trousers. “President Qi always says I’m like a camel thorn, but what’s truly rooted in the desert is the starlight bridge she built for the children.”

In the hotel suite late at night, Sang Jiyue soaked in the bathtub, looking at the old scar on her waist in the mirror—a scar from three years ago, inflicted while rescuing a child trapped in a mudslide. The bathroom door was gently pushed open, and Qi Yanqiu walked in carrying a first-aid kit, her suit jacket draped over her arm, the collar of her shirt still stained with red wine from the celebration banquet. "Does it hurt?" She knelt down, her fingertips hovering above the wound, as if touching fragile porcelain.

“It’s much better than when I got heatstroke in the desert.” Sang Jiyue smiled, putting her feet up on the edge of the bathtub. “Do you remember? Last year in Alashan, you carried me for three kilometers to find water.” She suddenly remembered something and took a desert rose stone from her bathrobe pocket. “Guli sent it today. She said it’s the most resilient flower in the desert.”

Qi Yanqiu took the stone and gently twirled it in her palm. Under the lamplight, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes shone with a gentle light: "Actually, I'm more like a poplar tree, immortal for a thousand years, and standing for a thousand years after death." She suddenly grasped Sang Jiyue's ankle, "But you are my desert rose, allowing me to see eternity in the wind and sand."

As morning light filtered through the curtains, Sang Jiyue woke up in Qi Yanqiu's arms. His phone screen was still lit, displaying financial statements for a charity project. She gently pulled the phone away and noticed that all expenditures were marked with pink hearts, with notes reading: "Jiyue's favorite yogurt candy," and "New schoolbags for the children."

"Awake?" Qi Yanqiu's hoarse voice sounded in the crook of her neck. "You're going to see the kids from XJ today. Remember to wear that golden poplar dress." She kissed Sang Jiyue's forehead. "And your desert rose earrings, I polished them last night."

Outside the window, the locust trees in Beijing were sprouting new buds. Sang Jiyue put on her earrings in front of the mirror; the turquoise refracted a rainbow of light in the morning glow. She suddenly remembered that stormy night seven years ago, when Qi Yanqiu stood at the practice room door, umbrella in hand, his suit soaked through, yet stubbornly saying, "I will let your starlight illuminate every corner."

At this moment, sunlight streams through the glass, weaving a golden net in the intertwined shadows of the two. The hopes planted in the desert will eventually blossom into eternal stars in the long river of time.

"Mr. Qi, what are you laughing at while looking at the financial statements?" Sang Jiyue came out of the bathroom wrapped in a bathrobe and saw the figure in front of the floor-to-ceiling window smiling at a tablet, the cuffs of his suit trousers still stained with rain from the red carpet. She shook the desert rose stone in her hand and suddenly remembered that just now in front of the camera, when Qi Yanqiu shielded her from a reporter's tricky questions, the emerald cufflinks on his cuffs shattered into a starry sky under the light.

The other person hurriedly turned off the tablet, their ear tips redder than the agate necklace around their neck: "It's nothing." Their fingertips traced the flight itinerary on the table. "Looking at flights to Hotan next week. You said you wanted to bring Pijaman pomegranates for the children—"

“That’s not right.” Sang Jiyue suddenly leaned closer, her fingertip touching the lingering light and shadow on the tablet. “I clearly saw the notes say ‘Buy sand-proof goggles for Jiyue,’ and…” She suddenly grabbed the other’s wrist, watching the silver bracelet, the same style as hers, shimmer with tiny spots of light in the morning glow. “Did you secretly transfer your endorsement fees to a charity fund again?”

Qi Yanqiu turned her face away, her voice muffled by her shirt collar: "You were the one who said you wanted to share the starlight with every corner." Suddenly, she noticed Sang Jiyue's bathrobe collar had slipped down, revealing a light brown scar below her collarbone—three years ago in the mountains of Yunnan, she had been carrying a feverish child down the mountain in the rain, when she was scratched by falling rocks. Her fingertips unconsciously traced the scar, feeling the rapid heartbeat beneath the other's skin.