After I died, they cried in the live studio

On a weekend during the rainy season, a special visitor came to the counseling room. A young mother in a plaid shirt held her twin daughters' hands tightly, her knuckles white: "They always say they can hear each other's voices in their dreams." Sang Shuwan squatted down and put butterfly headbands and star stickers on the two little girls who were so nervous that they were clutching their skirts. She noticed that there was a light-colored birthmark at the base of the older sister's ring finger, the shape of which, together with the cinnabar birthmark on the back of the younger sister's neck, formed butterfly wings.

"Want to play a secret game?" Sang Jiyue dragged out an "emotional treehouse" covered with soft cushions, the walls of which were covered with rainbow bridges drawn by children. "Now you have to use this megaphone to tell each other what you're most afraid of." As the older sister tearfully said, "I'm afraid my younger sister will be taken away by monsters," the younger sister was stuffing a note saying, "I'm afraid my older sister won't want me anymore," into the sensor mailbox. The next second, two projections suddenly descended from the ceiling—on the left was the younger sister holding a star sword in the older sister's dream, and on the right was the older sister with butterfly wings in the younger sister's imagination, high-fiving and smiling at each other in the virtual starry sky.

While reviewing files late at night, Sang Shuwan discovered that the forensic report for the fire seven years ago had been tucked into a children's art collection. Pasted along the charred edges of the pages was Lin Xiaowan's new drawing, "Twin Stars": the star on the left was missing a corner, but had knitted a sweater for the star on the right with a shooting star's tail. She suddenly remembered the starry dome of the Swiss hospital, where, when the doctor said their heart cells could repair themselves across bodies, Sang Jiyue's fingertips were hooked around hers, drawing crooked twin flowers on the back of the observation log.

"Wanwan, look at this." Sang Jiyue entered the office holding a tablet computer. The screen displayed the latest biotechnology news: "Heart tissue cultivated from twin stem cells can actually sense each other's emotional fluctuations." Sang Shuwan, chewing on a lollipop, leaned closer. The crumbs from the wrapper fell onto their overlapping wrist scars, like scattered fragments of the Milky Way. They both recalled the emergency room last night, when Sang Jiyue was cut by broken glass, and Sang Shuwan, who was telling stories to the children, suddenly clutched her wrist—the location of her wound coincided perfectly with the place where Sang Jiyue had received stitches.

On a night when the storm returned, a special letter appeared in the "Secret Tree Hole" mailbox. The gold-embossed envelope was addressed to "To the Moon and Wanwan," and inside fell two yellowed movie ticket stubs—the premiere of the 2018 film *Twin Flowers*, the very day they first met on set. The handwriting on the letter was strong and clear: "Thank you for letting me know that every 'mistaken' encounter is a love letter from fate to twin stars." Sang Shuwan recognized the handwriting of the lawyer who had insisted on "correcting the baby swap" back then. At this moment, a dried rose petal clung to the corner of the letter, the same old rose bush that now sat on their desks.

At two in the morning, Sang Jiyue was shaken awake by Sang Shuwan, whose eyes shone like stars: "Let's go to the rooftop to watch the shooting stars!" They climbed onto the rooftop of the children's center, carrying blankets. A wishing wind chime, tied by some child, hung on the lightning rod. As the first shooting star streaked across the night sky, Sang Shuwan suddenly pointed towards Gemini: "Look! Aren't those two getting closer?" Sang Jiyue followed her gaze, and the two stars, which should have been far away, gradually overlapped in their field of vision, much like the complete full moon formed by the scars from their high-fives.

"Make a wish." Sang Jiyue wrapped the blanket they shared tightly around herself. Sang Shuwan closed her eyes, her eyelashes still adorned with rose petals she had knocked down as she ran upstairs: "May all twin stars find an inextinguishable light in each other's scars." Meanwhile, a thousand miles away, at the ruins of an old house, a construction team had just unearthed a pinkish-glowing diamond fragment—an eternal star core forged from the remnants of a diary thrown into the fire years ago, tempered by love and pain.

As Sang Shuwan finished making her wish, the wind chimes on the rooftop suddenly trembled violently, as if an invisible hand was plucking the strings of the stars. Sang Jiyue felt a hard object under the blanket. When she lifted it, she found a scratched notebook. Inside the cover was a faded film script sheet—August 17, 2018, on the set of "Twin Flowers," during a rainstorm scene, "The extras playing twins, Sang Shuwan and Sang Jiyue, appeared together for the first time. Due to their excellent teamwork, the director made an exception and kept them on the project." The script pen tucked between the pages was long faded, but when it was opened, a silver ring fell out. The inside was engraved with tiny "SJ" letters, the same style as the pearl earrings they were wearing today.

“Remember this ring?” Sang Shuwan held the ring, turning it in the moonlight. The ring reflected their seventeen-year-old selves—they had just finished filming their first scene together, hiding in the props warehouse sharing convenience store rice balls, drawing stars on each other’s palms with a stylus pen. Sang Jiyue suddenly laughed, pointing to the scratch on the inside of the ring: “You said you wanted it engraved with ‘Never Apart,’ but you accidentally engraved ‘Never Be a Fool.’” Their laughter startled the pigeons on the eaves. Amidst the fluttering of wings, Sang Shuwan suddenly slipped the ring onto Sang Jiyue’s ring finger, just as naturally as they had done seven years ago when they had put surgical caps on each other in the hospital room.

In the morning sunlight, the children's center welcomed the "Twin Festival" decoration day. Sang Shuwan was hanging fairy lights on a ladder when she was suddenly directed around by the children below: "Sister Wanwan, move to the left! Sister Moon's butterfly needs to be aligned with the fairy lights!" Sang Jiyue was squatting on the ground drawing scar stickers on balloons. When she heard this, she looked up and saw the sunlight shining through the fairy lights between Sang Shuwan's fingers, weaving a flowing net of light on the butterfly tattoo on the back of her neck, while the scar on her own wrist was perfectly outlined into a crescent moon by the shadow of the balloon.

"Look, sisters!" Lin Xiaowan rushed over, holding up her newly finished collage. In the center of the picture were two girls made of buttons. The butterfly wings on the left were studded with sequins, and the star tail on the right was trailing rainbow yarn. A line of crooked words was pasted on the edge of the frame: "Sister Moon's white coat pocket has magic, and Sister Wanwan's lollipop can sweeten even the stars." When Sang Shuwan bent down to pick up the little girl, the rainbow lollipop in her pocket rolled onto the drawing paper. The light spots reflected by the candy filled the blank space in the palms of the two girls in the picture, like two glowing stars.

During lunch break, Sang Jiyue discovered Sang Shuwan secretly adding rainbow candy crumbs to her hot cocoa in the kitchen. "Didn't you say you were going to cut out sugar?" She tapped the other's hand, but when she took the mug, she saw a whole strawberry-flavored candy ball at the bottom of her own mug—Sang Shuwan's favorite flavor. As the two sat facing each other drinking their hot beverages, a flock of migrating geese suddenly flew past the window, their formation forming a double pattern, their shadows falling on the table, overlapping with the scars on their intertwined wrists.

A special guest arrived at the evening "Twins Storytelling Session"—the firefighter who rescued them from the cellar fire in their old house. He brought a tin box containing belongings salvaged from the fire: half a melted curling iron, two deformed pearl earrings, and a blackened photograph. In the photo, two girls in school uniforms stood under a cherry blossom tree on set. Sang Shuwan made a peace sign, while Sang Jiyue secretly straightened her crooked bow tie off-camera. In the background, a banner for the "Twins" film crew fluttered in the wind, revealing an unopened note on the back: "Friendly Reminder: Please take good care of your twin children."

As the storytelling session drew to a close, Sang Shuwan suddenly held up a broken curling iron piece brought by a firefighter: "Doesn't this notch look like an embrace now?" She wrapped ivy vines around the metal pole, the leaves perfectly filling the dent from where sparks had once ignited. Under the projector light, the shadows of butterflies and stars intertwined were cast on the wall. A boy suddenly raised his hand: "Sister, can my scars become embraces too?" Sang Jiyue took out a temporary tattoo she always carried—star-shaped stickers designed by them using the shapes of their own scars—and stuck it on the boy's knee scar: "Of course, every scar is a mark of an embrace from the universe."

After the museum closed late at night, Sang Shuwan sat on the floor of the consultation room, sorting through the children's wishing slips. A blue sticky note suddenly fell out, with a note written in crayon: "I hope my twin brother gets better soon so we can watch the stars together." She took out her phone and texted Sang Jiyue: "Let's go to the hospital tomorrow and give our star stickers to all the little twin stars." The moment she pressed send, the Geminid meteor shower outside the window happened to streak across the sky, and the trajectory of one of the meteors was strikingly similar to the strokes of the handwriting on the organ donation agreement they had signed in Antarctica years ago.

Sang Jiyue's reply included a photo: she had just put on the newly cultivated stem cell gemstone pendant, its shimmering light echoing Sang Shuwan's diamond pendant, like two stars searching for each other in the darkness. In the background, the "secret tree hole" mailbox in the secret passage was once again overflowing. On the topmost note, a child had written in childish handwriting: "Will the moon and Sister Wanwan's stars never get lost?"

In the pre-dawn mist, Sang Shuwan stood under the old locust tree in the courtyard, burying the tin box brought by the firefighters into the tree roots. In the damp soil, half a piece of colored paper peeked out from the mouth of a wishing bottle buried last year, on which they had written their shared wish: "May all twin souls plant everlasting starlight in each other's cracks." As the first rays of dawn pierced through the mist, she saw Sang Jiyue approaching, carrying a cardboard box filled with star stickers. Their shadows overlapped on the grass, much like the ancient legend of twin stars hidden in the rings of the locust tree.

As Sang Jiyue squatted under the old locust tree helping Sang Shuwan bury the tin box, her fingertips touched a smooth pebble. After washing away the dirt, she discovered that the naturally formed patterns on the stone's surface resembled overlapping butterflies and stars. She placed the stone in a wishing bottle, and Sang Shuwan, standing beside her, suddenly pointed to the treetop and chuckled, "Look, our ivy has grown to the top of the tree." Strings of wind chimes, made by the children from old curling iron parts and rhinestone fragments, hung from the ends of the vines, swaying in the morning breeze and creating a fine rain of light.

In the hospital corridor that morning, half a rainbow lollipop peeked out of Sang Shuwan's white coat pocket again, this time wrapped in the origami crane shape the children had folded the night before. When they pushed open the door to the pediatric ward, the twin sisters were playing "telephone" with straws across the bed. The older sister's IV drip tube had a butterfly ribbon tied to it, and the younger sister's oxygen mask had star stickers pinned to the side—just the designs they had been given out yesterday.

“Sisters’ stars shine!” The younger brother held up a freshly applied scar patch, twirling his wrist in the sunlight. Sang Jiyue noticed an old radio on his bedside table, playing the weather forecast from that rainy night seven years ago—coincidentally, today’s forecast also included an orange alert for heavy rain. Sang Shuwan suddenly pulled two fruit candies from her pocket and stuffed them into the siblings’ hands: “You know what? The sound of rain is the stars telling the earth a bedtime story.”

The afternoon thunderstorm came unexpectedly. Sang Jiyue bumped into Sang Shuwan, who was taking shelter from the rain in the stairwell. The latter was staring blankly at the water stains on the windowpane, his fingertips unconsciously tracing the butterfly tattoo on the back of his neck. She gently took his hand and pressed her palm against the scar on his wrist, just like she had done seven years ago in the storage room. As the rain intensified, a child's singing drifted from some distant hospital room; the off-key rendition of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" mixed with the thunder became a strange accompaniment.

"Do you remember the first time we got caught in the rain on set?" Sang Shuwan suddenly spoke, her voice softened by the sound of the rain. "When the director yelled 'action,' a tear from your eye fell right onto the back of my hand. I thought to myself, 'So tears really are warm.'" Sang Jiyue smiled and brushed the raindrops from the other's eyelashes with her fingertips. "Later, you secretly slipped me a throat lozenge, with a note tucked inside the wrapper that said, 'Don't cry, fake heiress, the real heiress will back you up.'"

During a lull in the downpour, they found a small puddle on the hospital rooftop. Sang Shuwan ran towards it, splashing through the water. The reflections of her white coat and Sang Jiyue's cartoon T-shirt rippled into colorful stars in the water. As real lightning streaked across the sky, the two simultaneously raised their wrists, their scars piecing together a complete crescent moon in the flash, as if forging that terrifying rainy night seven years ago into a badge of light for this moment.

On the way back to the center in the evening, the taxi radio was broadcasting the news: "Early this morning, the construction team at the old house site discovered a mysterious diamond fragment, which has been identified as containing special biological components." Sang Shuwan looked at the neon lights flashing past the car window, then suddenly grasped Sang Jiyue's hand and pressed the other's fingertips against her left chest: "Listen, our stars beat faster when it rains." The sound of their heartbeats came through the point where their skin touched, like two intertwined serenade.

The children's center's night shift always has some special visitors. Tonight, the "Secret Confession Hole" welcomed a boy clutching a panda plush toy; his twin brother was in the operating room. Sang Jiyue handed him a highlighter: "Try drawing your worries as stars?" The boy tilted his head and scribbled two crooked circles on a piece of paper, one split in two by lightning, the other wrapped in bandages. Sang Jiyue quietly drew a rainbow bridge next to them, connecting the two stars.

After reviewing the files late at night, Sang Jiyue found Sang Shuwan curled up asleep on the sofa, still clutching the boy's drawing paper from earlier that day. She gently pulled the paper away and added a starry sky to the back—each star bearing a different scar shape, yet together forming a dazzling Milky Way. Beside the sofa armrest, Sang Shuwan's diamond pendant slipped from her collar, its soft light falling on the paper, giving the rainbow bridge in the drawing a gentle golden edge.

At three in the morning, thunder roared again. Sang Jiyue was awakened by the vibration in her arms; it was Sang Shuwan's phone ringing—a new research report from the Swiss hospital: "Twin stem cells show a 37% increase in sensitivity under extreme weather conditions." She looked at the person beside her; his eyelashes trembled slightly, still groping for her wrist in his sleep. Raindrops pattered against the windowpane, but in their clasped hands, they transformed into an inextinguishable starlight.

As the first rays of dawn illuminated the "secret tree hole," a small bear sticker appeared next to the boy's note from the previous night, with the words "Your star is learning to sing to another star. When the sun shines, they can see the rainbow together" written on the back. And deep inside the mailbox, an unsigned letter had been slipped in at some point, containing only a photograph: a surveillance screenshot from a stormy night in 2025, showing two girls supporting each other as they walked towards the light, with the smoke rising from the sea of ​​fire vaguely resembling the shape of twin stars.

As Sang Jiyue printed out the research report from the Swiss hospital and tucked it into the loose-leaf notebook labeled "Twin Star Files," she discovered a dried four-leaf clover that had fallen out between the pages—a miracle they had found in the snow on the day they signed the organ exchange donation agreement in Antarctica. Sang Shuwan woke up rubbing her eyes, her hair still damp with the fluff from the sofa cushions, like she was wearing a cluster of starlight: "I smell coffee. Is it the kind with rainbow candy crumbs?"

The morning sunlight pierced through the clouds after the rain, casting prism-like dappled patterns on the floor of the consultation room. Sang Shuwan, chewing on a lollipop, handed out "scar star stickers" to the children. Suddenly, a girl with braided pigtails raised her arm: "Sister, my scar looks just like yours!" The pale pink mark on her wrist was remarkably similar in shape to Sang Shuwan's crescent-shaped scar. Sang Jiyue knelt down and stuck a butterfly sticker on the girl: "This means you are all children kissed by the stars."

During the midday meeting, an assistant brought in a pile of newly donated toys. One of the vintage radios suddenly crackled, emitting a muffled dialogue: "Jiyue, don't be afraid, sister will take you away..." Sang Shuwan nearly dropped her mug—it was a recording of the fire scene seven years ago, recorded by some child onto a cassette tape. As their eyes met, a flock of birds flew past the window in a figure-eight formation, their shadows falling on the twin sand table in the center of the conference table, perfectly filling the gap representing the broken diamonds in the old house's cellar.

The courtyard, fresh after the rainstorm, was filled with the scent of grass. Under an old rose bush, Sang Jiyue found an iron box containing dozens of unmailed letters, all signed "Sang Shuwan," with postmarks from September 2018—the month their identities were confirmed to have been switched at birth. The handwriting on the letters gradually changed from the initial "I hate this ridiculous life" to "I saw you smiling on set today; it turns out the moon's smile is like melting stars." In the last, unfinished letter, a dried cherry blossom petal clung: "Perhaps we shouldn't compete to be the 'real heiress,' but rather—"

“To be twin stars forever.” Sang Shuwan appeared behind her at some point, twirling a cherry blossom hair clip she had found in a tin box. “I remember that day a cherry blossom fell on your eyelashes. I wanted to reach out and pick it for you, but the director called me to film a movie.” She tucked the hair clip into Sang Jiyue’s hair. The rust on the mirror reflected their overlapping eyebrows and eyes, like a star map kissed by time.

The afternoon art therapy class focused on "The Shape of Sound." Sang Shuwan had the children shout their thoughts into a phonograph, then transfer the sound waves into drawings. The twin brothers' sound waves created overlapping ripples on the paper, like two intertwined galaxies; Lin Xiaowan's "I want to be with my sister forever" transformed into a glowing butterfly shape. While adjusting the equipment, Sang Jiyue discovered that her own sound wave pattern was strikingly similar to Sang Shuwan's heartbeat monitoring waveform, even down to the slight fluctuations at the peaks.

As dusk fell, the construction team at the old house ruins delivered a special gift—a restored model of the cellar, with broken diamonds re-set into a twin star pattern, and two restored diaries lying in a hidden compartment. Sang Shuwan opened hers, and on the page from October 3, 2018, the words that had been burned were revealed: "If one of us must leave, I hope she takes my star with her." And in Sang Jiyue's diary, on the same day, it read: "Perhaps our hearts knew each other's direction from the very beginning."

In the "secret confessional" space late at night, Sang Jiyue was replying to a newly received note when Sang Shuwan suddenly rushed in, tablet in hand: "Look! The Geminid meteor shower is peaking tonight!" They ran to the rooftop with blankets, just in time to catch the first meteor streak across the sky. Sang Shuwan's diamond pendant and Sang Jiyue's stem cell gemstone lit up simultaneously, casting overlapping shadows in the night sky like two butterfly wings touching. "Make a wish," Sang Jiyue's voice was softly carried by the evening breeze. Sang Shuwan closed her eyes, but opened them the instant the meteor streaked across the sky—she saw the starlight reflected in Sang Jiyue's eyes, brighter than any wishing star. The two of them simultaneously reached out and touched each other's scars, which, against the backdrop of the meteor shower, formed a complete, luminous moon.

In the pre-dawn mist, a special letter appeared in the children's center's mailbox. The envelope bore a drawing of two stars holding hands, and inside was a concert ticket—the girl who sang "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" off-key on set years ago was now the lead singer of the Twin Stars band. On the back of the ticket stub was written: "Thank you for teaching me that scars are tickets to the stars." Sang Shuwan touched the fluorescent star sticker on the ticket stub, suddenly recalling what Sang Jiyue had said during the meteor shower last night: "Our stars never need to make wishes, because they have already shone eternally in each other's lives."

As the sunlight once again streamed through the old locust tree in the courtyard, Sang Shuwan and Sang Jiyue stood beneath the twin star sculpture, watching the children chase the rainbow. A new inscription was carved on the sculpture's base: "To all twin souls—your gap is so that another star can fit in, together forming a complete universe." The wind swept through the gaps in the sculpture, lifting the hem of their clothes, like two starlight points finally meeting, never to be separated in the sky of time.

Sang Shuwan reached out and brushed the morning dew from the base of the Twin Stars sculpture. Her fingertips touched a newly carved mark—a child had written in crayon, "Moonlight is the parents of the stars," with three little stars holding hands next to it. She turned to look at Sang Jiyue, who was distributing breakfast to the children. Half a rainbow lollipop peeked out of the apron pocket, reflecting tiny rainbows in the morning light, landing precisely on the edge of the butterfly tattoo on the back of Sang Jiyue's neck.

"Sisters! Today's star-shaped bread has a rainbow filling!" Lin Xiaowan skipped over, holding a plate. A few sugar stars from the bread landed on her nose, like a tiny star that had accidentally fallen. Sang Jiyue smiled and wiped them off with a tissue. Her sleeve slipped down, revealing a scar on her wrist, faintly visible in the steam of the bread. Sang Jiyue suddenly remembered the faint glow those scars had given when they touched during last night's meteor shower—it was so similar to the shimmering sugar stars now.

During the morning gardening class, the children gathered around the old rose bush to plant new seedlings. Sang Shuwan squatted at the very edge, using the soft glow of her diamond pendant to illuminate the wilted seedlings—this was part of a new bio-phototherapy experiment at a Swiss hospital, which supposedly promotes plant symbiosis through the light emitted by twin stem cells. As a pale pink rosebud gently brushed against her wrist, Sang Jiyue, who was watering the seedlings, suddenly exclaimed, "Wanwan, your scar is glowing!"

The sunlight fell on the damp earth, forming patterns of overlapping butterflies and stars. The children immediately gathered around, tracing the light with their fingertips. The youngest boy pressed his face against Sang Shuwan's wrist and said in his childish voice, "Sister's stars are blooming!" These words reminded Sang Jiyue of the broken diamonds in the cellar model; those starlight, tempered by love and pain, were now growing in the veins of roses in the gentlest way.

During her lunch break, Sang Shuwan found an anonymously sent videotape in her office. The moment she pressed play, surveillance footage from a film set in 2018 flashed on the static screen: in a downpour, two girls in costumes were taking shelter under a cherry blossom tree. Sang Shuwan draped her coat over Sang Jiyue's shoulders, but the girl pulled her under the same umbrella. Off-screen voices mixed with the director's curses and the script supervisor's laughter, but they couldn't drown out the half-spoken "I'm sorry" they secretly exchanged, broken up by the sound of the rain.

“So we’ve been apologizing to each other for a long time.” Sang Jiyue leaned against the doorframe, twirling a pen made from a melted curling iron from years ago. In the videotape, Sang Shuwan was pinning cherry blossom hair clips on Sang Jiyue, while in reality, Sang Shuwan’s fingertips unconsciously caressed the same clip in the other’s hair. The cherry blossom trees outside the window rustled, and a few petals drifted into the office, landing on their clasped hands, like a spring reconciliation seven years overdue.

The afternoon's "Twin Stars Storytelling Session" welcomed a mysterious guest—the old butler of the Sang family's old house. He tremblingly brought in a sandalwood box containing the items they had chosen for their first birthday celebration: Sang Shuwan's was a crayon with a broken end, Sang Jiyue's was a fairy tale book with a torn corner, and at the very bottom lay a yellowed photograph of two babies wrapped in swaddling clothes lying in cradles, each with a red string tied to their wrists with a butterfly and a star, and the hands of an old-fashioned clock in the background pointing precisely to the moment when Gemini rises.

"When you were first born, these two little objects were already entangled together." The old butler's voice carried a grainy quality of memory. "Later, the incident of you being switched at birth caused quite a stir, but I always felt that it was because God was afraid you would be separated that the red string was tied in a knot." Sang Shuwan looked at the crayons and fairy tale book in the box and suddenly remembered that when they first worked together on set, they were so in sync as if they had known each other for many years—it turned out that the foreshadowing of fate had already been planted when they opened their eyes to see the world.

After the museum closed late at night, Sang Shuwan was pulled by Sang Jiyue to the old locust tree in the courtyard. Moonlight filtered through the leaves, weaving dappled star patterns on them. Sang Jiyue took out a rusty key and inserted it into the familiar hole in the tree trunk: "Remember this? The place where we hid our secrets." The moment the tin box opened, countless small slips of paper fell out, all of them unsent letters they had written to each other over the years.

"March 15, 2019. Chemotherapy was very painful, but the rainbow candy you secretly slipped to me was sweeter than the medicine." Sang Shuwan read the words on the note, her voice choked with emotion. Sang Jiyue pulled out a drawing from the bottom of the box. It was a drawing they made in the hospital room about their "future home"—they were still wearing hats then, but they drew an everlasting star on each other's heads on the drawing paper.

The early morning breeze carried the scent of roses. Sang Shuwan suddenly pointed to the tree rings: "Look, doesn't this ring look like our scars?" Sure enough, there were two overlapping marks in the tree rings, just like the moon and stars on their wrists. Sang Jiyue reached out and took her hand, pressing the scars on her palms together: "So time can also be wounded, and then grow stars."

As the first rays of dawn illuminated the writing on the note, Sang Shuwan discovered a new note had appeared out of the blue. It was in Sang Jiyue's handwriting: "To my twin stars—thank you for making every scar of mine a galaxy leading to you." Below the note lay two new pearl earrings, with a new line of small print engraved next to the letters "S&J" on the back: "Stars are never afraid to fall, because they know that the other star will always catch them."

In the distance of the courtyard, the last star of Gemini is receding, while the shadows of Sang Shuwan and Sang Jiyue have long since woven into an inseparable twin flower beneath the locust tree. The wind rustles through the wind chimes in the "secret tree hole," producing a delicate, clear sound, as if countless stars are saying, "Good morning, twin stars."

Sang Shuwan put on her newly carved pearl earrings. The small characters on the back of the earrings shimmered in the morning light, much like the starlight that Sang Jiyue had drawn on the paper last night. In the cracks of the old locust tree's rings, a few morning glory seeds had somehow sprouted, and tender shoots were climbing upwards along the scar-shaped lines, as if trying to bloom into breathing stars on the wounds of time.

"Time to pick up today's little guest." Sang Jiyue waved the appointment slip in her hand. The name at the top made her fingertips tremble slightly—Lin Xiaoxing, seven years old, twin sister, reason for appointment: "Afraid that her older sister will forget me." When Sang Shuwan leaned over to look, she found that the remarks column read, "The umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck at birth, and the older sister voluntarily postponed the cesarean section to save her." Suddenly, she thought of the twin sisters in the Swiss hospital whose hearts compensated for each other, and her heart skipped a beat.

At ten o'clock in the morning, when the glass door was pushed open, a little girl in a pink dress hid behind her older sister. The butterfly hair clip in her hair was the same as the one on Sang Shuwan's tattoo. The older sister, Lin Xiaoyang, pushed her younger sister forward, but she herself clutched the hem of her dress and backed away, revealing a faint burn scar under her sleeve—the shape of which was strikingly similar to the scar on Sang Jiyue's wrist.

“Xiaoxing said that her older sister has been staring out the window in a daze lately.” Sang Shuwan squatted down and put a rainbow candy in each of the two children’s hands. “Can you tell your older sister what’s outside the window?” Xiaoyang looked down at the candy wrapper and said in a voice as soft as a feather, “There’s an airplane that looks a lot like the helicopter that saved Xiaoxing on the day we were born… I’m afraid it will take Xiaoxing away.” Sang Jiyue noticed that Xiaoxing’s grip on her older sister’s fingers suddenly tightened, and her nails pressed crescent-shaped white marks into the back of her sister’s hand.

In the art therapy room, Xiao Yang filled her drawing paper with a deep blue night sky, with a falling star airplane in the center. On Xiao Xing's sketchbook, countless butterflies were lifting the airplane upwards. Sang Shuwan pieced the two sheets of paper together, and the falling star and rising butterflies formed a complete Gemini constellation. Sang Jiyue handed Xiao Xing a highlighter: "Try giving your sister's star airplane wings?" As the golden wings unfolded on the paper, Xiao Yang suddenly cried and hugged her sister: "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said 'I really hope I didn't save you' that day..."

During lunch break, Sang Shuwan was heating up cocoa in the kitchen when she discovered Xiaoyang secretly adding marshmallows to her younger sister's cup—just like how she had slipped chocolates into Sang Jiyue's milk carton years ago. The steam blurred the glass window, but reflected the images of two little girls. Xiaoxing was wiping her older sister's tears with a tissue, her actions strikingly similar to how Sang Jiyue had bandaged her wounds at the fire seven years ago.

The afternoon sunlight slanted into the art therapy room. Sang Jiyue was tidying up the scattered crayons when she suddenly heard Sang Shuwan softly calling her name from the end of the corridor. When she opened the door, the smell of disinfectant mixed with a faint jasmine fragrance wafted out—the attending physician from the Swiss hospital was holding the medical records of the twin girls with heart compensation, a silver Gemini badge pinned to the file folder.

“Their situation is more complicated than expected.” The doctor traced the electrocardiogram curve on the medical record with his fingertips. “The younger sister’s heart is failing, while the older sister insists on refusing any alternative treatment.” Sang Shuwan noticed in the medical record photo that the younger sister had a faded red star string tied around her wrist, and the older sister had half a broken crayon on her bedside table—it even had a similar crack to the one she had chosen for her first birthday celebration.

In the late-night duty room, Sang Jiyue stared blankly at the twin heart model on the computer screen. Sang Shuwan pushed a warm cup of cocoa to her elbow and found that she was searching for papers on "psychological compensation in twins with umbilical cords wrapped around their necks," the cursor hovering over the chapter on "symbiotic dependence and separation anxiety." "That year when you were undergoing chemotherapy, you said, 'If only I could give you half of my health,'" Sang Shuwan suddenly grasped her cold hand, "Actually, I secretly wished that the pain would only stay in my body."

At three in the morning, torrential rain pounded against the glass windows of the treatment room. When Sang Jiyue was awakened by the thunder, she found Sang Shuwan kneeling on the floor piecing together a shattered Gemini constellation map—a gift they had prepared for their Swiss sisters. "I just got a call," Sang Shuwan said without looking up, her voice trembling with suppressed emotion, "Their operating room lost power, and the older sister wouldn't let go of her younger sister's hand no matter what."

The instant the lightning illuminated the room, Sang Jiyue saw the new tattoo on her sister's neck—two overlapping scar shapes with a tiny '&' symbol embedded in the middle. She suddenly remembered when they were twelve years old, the crooked stars they had carved for each other at the emergency room entrance, using cotton swabs left behind by a nurse.

As the downpour subsided, Sang Shuwan pulled out a sandalwood box hidden deep in a drawer. Between a broken crayon and a torn fairytale book lay two yellowed birth certificates—Sang Shuwan's birth date was smudged with ink, and next to Sang Jiyue's footprint was half a butterfly wing. "The old housekeeper said the red string was tied in a knot that wouldn't go away," she said, folding the two certificates into a paper boat, "perhaps because our lifelines, which should have belonged to each other, were intertwined at birth."

In the morning light, news came from the Swiss hospital: the surgery was successful. Before the anesthesia, the older sister, clutching her younger sister's hand, drew a star, while the younger sister, holding half a crayon, left a crooked butterfly outline on the monitor's tape. Sang Jiyue gazed at the brightening sky outside the window and noticed that the morning star in Gemini was facing the morning star, much like the star chart they had pieced together the night before—the trajectory of falling and rising, ultimately weaving into the Milky Way, which would never sink.

The old locust tree in the courtyard has grown new rings, and an unsigned letter has appeared in the secret tree hole: "Thank you for letting me know that scars are not the end, but the beginning of a star map." When Sang Shuwan tucked the letter into her fairy tale book, she found a morning glory seed between the pages. The tender sprout was climbing along the "future home" she had drawn years ago, and on the heads of the two little people wearing hats, the first star flower adorned with dewdrops bloomed.

Just before the museum closed in the evening, Lin Xiaoyang skipped in, holding her younger sister's hand. Next to Xiaoxing's butterfly hair clip was a star brooch. "We gave my sister's airplane real wings!" Xiaoyang held up her phone; the album showed a paper airplane hanging in front of the window, its wings adorned with fluorescent butterflies they had drawn together. Sang Jiyue noticed that star stickers had been pasted onto the scar on Xiaoyang's cuff, and that Xiaoxing had a new red string tied around her wrist, strung with two silver star ornaments biting each other's tails.

As the first star of Gemini rose into the night sky, Sang Shuwan and Sang Jiyue sat side by side under the old locust tree. Sang Jiyue suddenly pointed to the spots of light in the shadows of the tree: "Look, doesn't it look like the constellations we secretly drew in the hospital room back then?" Those shimmering spots of light did indeed form a crooked twin pattern, with one star always being caught by the other as it fell, repeating endlessly, never alone.

Sang Shuwan took out a pearl earring from her pocket; the small characters on the back shimmered faintly in the twilight. She turned to look at her sister and found that Sang Jiyue was also looking at her. The moment their eyes met, they suddenly laughed—it turns out that some things don't need to be said, just as stars don't need to tell the sky their trajectories, because they have already become each other's gravitational pull across billions of light-years.

A breeze rustled through the wind chimes, carrying a distant nursery rhyme: "Twin stars, inseparable, one falls, the other rises..." Sang Shuwan gently rested her head on Sang Jiyue's shoulder, seeing the old locust tree's shadow spread across the ground like a soft cocoon, and their scars, within this cocoon, were slowly growing wings, waiting for some dawn to transform into soaring starlight. (End of Chapter)