After I died, they cried in the live studio

Chapter 194 It turns out to be you
As the late autumn mist drifted into the courtyard, Sang Shuwan was wrapping colorful lights around the old locust tree. The light bulbs were arranged along the scars of the tree's growth rings, and in the warm yellow halo, the morning glory seeds planted last year had already climbed halfway up the trunk. The pale purple buds trembled gently in the mist, much like the forget-me-nots they had secretly picked from the hospital window sill years ago.

“The plane to Switzerland will land in half an hour.” Sang Jiyue’s voice came from behind. A new brooch was pinned to her cashmere scarf—two overlapping maple leaves, with tiny silver stars embedded in the veins. When Sang Shuwan turned around, she saw her pushing a wheelchair with a girl wearing a knitted hat sitting in it. The red star-shaped string on her wrist and her own butterfly tattoo were half a meter apart, yet they had a strangely subtle sense of symmetry.

“This is Xiao En.” Sang Jiyue squatted down to adjust the drawing board on the wheelchair. “Her older sister, Xiao Hui, is in the baking room upstairs. She said she’s going to bake star-shaped cookies for everyone.” Sang Shuwan noticed that the blanket covering Xiao En’s knees was embroidered with a faded Gemini pattern. Each star was embroidered with a different colored thread, just like the rainbow star map they drew in their chemotherapy record book when they were little.

During afternoon tea, when Xiao Hui brought in a baking tray, Sang Shuwan heard a slight creak from the wheelchair—Xiao En was using her teeth to hold a paintbrush and applying cream-colored paint to the canvas. The cookies in the tray were indeed star-shaped, one of them missing a corner. Xiao Hui smiled sheepishly, "I accidentally knocked it off when I was getting it." Sang Jiyue reached out and took the cookie, her eyes lighting up after taking a bite: "Only a star with a missing corner will meet the moon to fill it in!"

As dusk settled, Xiao En suddenly pointed to Orion outside the window: "My sister said there's a wandering star there." Sang Shuwan followed her gaze and noticed a particularly bright star in the Orion belt position, with a fainter little star seemingly approaching slowly beside it. Sang Jiyue took out a constellation necklace from her pocket, a gift they had exchanged for their twentieth birthdays—a Gemini pendant with the characters "Shu" and "Ji" engraved in small seal script on the back.

“The winter we were born,” Sang Jiyue took off the necklace and placed it in Xiao En’s palm, “the Geminid meteor shower was particularly spectacular. The old housekeeper said that every meteor came to deliver a gift to the twin stars.” Xiao En gently stroked the pendant and suddenly asked, “So what were the gifts you received?” Sang Shuwan and Sang Jiyue exchanged a glance and smiled at the same time, their gazes falling on the scars on each other’s wrists—the pale pink lines shimmered softly under the light, like star marks kissed by time.

After the museum closed late at night, Sang Shuwan was sorting through the newly received gifts in the duty room. A photo fell out of a package from Switzerland: Xiao En and Xiao Hui were sitting on the lawn, the older sister's white coat draped over the younger sister's shoulders, and behind them was a twin star pattern made of pine needles. On the back of the photo was written: "Thank you for teaching us that heartbeats are starlight that can be shared." Next to it was a ginkgo leaf, with the word "Forever" embroidered in gold thread on its veins.

When Sang Jiyue came in carrying a blanket, she saw Sang Shuwan staring blankly at a photo. "Do you remember the first time we argued?" She covered their laps with the blanket. "You said I always saved the best food for you, like I was pitying you." Sang Shuwan remembered Christmas Eve when she was fourteen. Sang Jiyue broke the only chocolate in half and hid her half for three days. The chocolate wrapper was wrinkled from sweaty hands.

“Actually, I’m just afraid,” Sang Jiyue suddenly grasped her hand, pressing it against the scar on her palm, “afraid that one day you’ll realize that I need this bond more than you do.” Sang Shuwan turned to look at her and noticed that her eyelashes were misty, just like the light that shone in Sang Jiyue’s eyes when they watched the sunrise on the hospital rooftop after chemotherapy that year.

At two in the morning, Sang Shuwan was awakened by the sound of rain. She groped her way to the courtyard and saw Sang Jiyue sitting under the old locust tree, holding a broken crayon, drawing stars on the puddle-filled stone slab. In the instant lightning flashed, she saw that the stars all had gaps, and each gap was aligned with the tip of another star, as if dancing a waltz in the rain that would never collide.

“When I was little, I always thought,” Sang Jiyue’s voice mingled with the sound of rain, “that twin stars should always be bright and dazzling.” She put the crayon into the tree hole and watched the rain wash the outline of the star into a soft ball of light. “Later I learned that stars also have dark sides and cracks, but that’s why they shine so brightly, trying to find the star that can complete them.”

Sang Shuwan sat down beside her, letting the rain soak her hair. In the distance, Gemini was faintly visible behind the clouds. One star was suddenly obscured by the clouds, while the other lit up, as if using its own light to open a window for the other in the rain. She suddenly remembered what the old butler had said: "True twin stars are never afraid of being temporarily lost, because deep in their souls, they are forever connected by the same Milky Way."

As dawn broke, Sang Jiyue noticed that the star-patterned stone slab had been washed away by the rain, turning into a pale golden stream that meandered upwards along the scarred lines of the old locust tree. Morning glory buds gently opened at the end of the stream, each petal reflecting two tiny morning stars, like twin legends lifted by dew.

"Time to pick up today's little guest." Sang Shuwan stood up and noticed that Sang Jiyue's scarf was wrapped around her neck at some point, the two body temperatures quietly mingling in the wool fibers. The new name on the appointment slip stunned them both—Su Xinghe, six years old, the older twin sister, reason for appointment: "My younger sister can't see, I'm afraid she won't be able to find me." The remarks section read: "Congenital cataracts, she clung to her older sister's finger at birth and wouldn't let go."

The moment the glass door opened, a little girl in a blue dress stood in the doorway, leading a guide dog, her other hand tightly clutching her older sister's clothes. The older sister, Su Yuebai, knelt down and placed a piece of fruit candy in her younger sister's palm: "If you put a star-shaped candy in your mouth, you can see the light in your sister's heart." Sang Shuwan noticed a blue bracelet on Yuebai's wrist with a bell at the end, and a silver star clip tucked into Xinghe's braid, exactly the same as the one Sang Jiyue had hidden deep in the drawer.

In the art therapy room, Yuebai used a embossed pen to draw the starry sky on Braille paper, while Xinghe touched the paper with her fingers and copied it from memory on the canvas next to her. Sang Jiyue handed over a box of fluorescent paint, and Xinghe dipped her fingertips in the gold, suddenly dotting two overlapping spots of light in the center of the canvas—the location of her sister's eyes in her memory. Yuebai reached out and touched the canvas, and when her fingertips touched the two spots of light, she suddenly smiled: "So, in your eyes, the stars can embrace."

During lunch break, Sang Shuwan saw Xinghe drawing patterns on her sister's juice with a straw, while Yuebai tilted her head and listened attentively as her sister described the colors: "Red is the sunset with strawberry flavor, blue is the eyes of a guide dog, and yellow is the star candy my sister gave me..." Sunlight streamed through the glass window, weaving a golden net on their clasped hands, much like the pendulum of the old clock in the Sang family's old house, swaying gently in the passage of time.

As they saw the guests off at dusk, Xinghe suddenly turned around and folded the star-shaped candy wrappers into a small boat, handing it to Sang Shuwan: "A gift for the older sisters." Tiny words were engraved in Braille on the bottom of the candy boat. Sang Jiyue gently touched them with her fingertips and recognized "thank you" and two crooked star patterns. Yuebai led her younger sister into the twilight. The guide dog's bell gradually faded, leaving behind a string of star-shaped footprints, tinged a warm orange by the setting sun.

Sang Shuwan and Sang Jiyue stood side by side at the door, watching the stars in Gemini light up one by one. Sang Jiyue suddenly pointed to two stars that were particularly close together: "Look, don't they look like the paper airplanes we folded for Xiaoxing and the others?" Sang Shuwan nodded and noticed that the line connecting the two stars passed right through the top of the old locust tree, casting overlapping shadows on the ground, much like how the scars on their wrists would always naturally close together whenever they held hands.

A breeze rustled through the wind chimes in the courtyard, creating a delicate, tinkling sound. Sang Shuwan pulled out a candy-wrapped boat from her pocket and suddenly remembered years ago in the hospital ward, when they folded stars from the tin foil of fever-reducing medicine, promising that if they folded a thousand, they could exchange them for an eternal bond. Now, the rings of the old locust tree were filled with countless such stars, emitting a faint light every night, weaving a galaxy that belonged only to the twin stars.

"Are you cold?" Sang Jiyue tightened her scarf further. Sang Shuwan smelled the faint jasmine scent on it, the smell of their shared laundry detergent. The siren of a fire truck drifted from afar, but faded as it approached the courtyard, as if gently supported by some tender force. Looking at her sister's profile outlined by starlight, Sang Shuwan suddenly understood. The miracle of twin stars wasn't about never falling, but rather that when one star fell into darkness, the other would always become her eyes, seeing the light of the entire universe for her.

The branches of the old locust tree swayed gently, and a few red leaves fell onto their shoulders. Sang Jiyue picked one up and examined its veins under the starlight. Those crisscrossing fine lines resembled the tangled electrocardiogram curves on their medical records. Now, they had become bookmarks of time, tucked between their life stories, proving how pain had transformed into starlight, illuminating each other's journeys.

As the first shooting star streaked across the night sky, Sang Shuwan and Sang Jiyue closed their eyes simultaneously. There was no need to make a wish, for they already possessed the most precious gift—in this vast universe, there would always be a star sharing the same heartbeat, the same memories, the same Milky Way paved with scars and hope.

Deep in the courtyard, the wind chimes in the secret tree hollow rang again. This time, the sound was exceptionally clear, like countless stars saying, "Goodnight, twin stars. See you tomorrow."

As the first snow of winter blanketed the courtyard, Sang Shuwan was wrapping the old locust tree in a blanket to keep it warm. Fine snowflakes seeped into her scarf, melting into droplets that clung to her eyelashes. For a moment, she felt as if she were back on Christmas Eve when she was twelve—she was huddled on a bench in the hospital corridor, watching the light in Sang Jiyue's ward flicker in the snowy night, clutching half a hard chocolate bar with crooked star patterns printed on the wrapper.

"The package from Switzerland has arrived." Sang Jiyue's voice interrupted her reverie. She was holding a huge cardboard box, with half a rainbow-colored crayon peeking out from the seams of the tape. When she opened it, countless sheets of drawing paper spilled out, each depicting the Gemini stars from a different angle. In the lower right corner, in German, was written: "To our star guides." At the bottom lay a wooden box containing two silver rings. The rings featured intertwined butterflies and stars, with a tiny "∞" symbol engraved on the inside.

“Xiao En said they ordered this with their first paycheck.” Sang Jiyue slipped the ring onto her ring finger; the silver ring gleamed warmly in the snow. “They’re going to the Arctic next month to see the aurora borealis, and they said they’d like to take pictures of Gemini in the polar night for us.” Sang Shuwan noticed the scar on her cuff, which looked particularly soft against the white snow, like a snow mark kissed by moonlight.

On Christmas Eve, the story club welcomed a special guest—a middle-aged woman pushing a suitcase. When she took off her scarf, Sang Shuwan noticed a butterfly-shaped birthmark behind her ear, strikingly similar to the tattoo below her collarbone. "My name is Lin Wanqiu," the woman's voice trembled slightly, "Thirty years ago, I worked as a nanny in the Sang family's old house..."

The sandalwood box was gently opened. Above the broken crayons and torn fairy tale book lay a yellowed letter. The edges of the letter bore the paw prints of a baby, and the contents were blurred in several places by tears: "I'm sorry, when the babies were switched at birth, I secretly hid these red strings. Every time I see you, it's like seeing another star I've lost..." Sang Jiyue's fingers traced the letter, suddenly touching a photograph that had fallen out from a hidden compartment—a young Lin Wanqiu holding two babies, a star-shaped red string tied to her left wrist, a butterfly to her right, and the hands of an old-fashioned clock in the background stopped at the rising Gemini constellation.

“I went abroad later,” Lin Wanqiu wiped her eyes, “until I saw your report last week, I realized that fate had already…” Her voice choked up. Sang Shuwan suddenly noticed that she was wearing an old ring on her ring finger. The ring face was a star that had been broken and pieced back together, and it had a similar pattern to the Swiss silver ring they had received.

In the late-night duty room, Sang Shuwan stared blankly at the pair of red strings. The butterfly and star from thirty years ago now lay quietly on the desk, a few strands of baby hair tangled at the knot. Sang Jiyue took out a videotape sent by the old butler before his death. The video showed a scene of a baby's first birthday celebration: two babies suddenly grabbed each other's red strings and pulled them towards their chests, causing crayons and fairy tale books to become tangled. The old butler's voice-over was chuckled: "Look at these two little devils, they know how to snatch things before they even open their eyes."

"So our first argument was about the red string." Sang Jiyue shook her head with a smile. In the static of the videotape, the two babies suddenly turned their heads at the same time, showing toothless smiles at the camera, just like how they looked now when they looked in the mirror side by side. Sang Shuwan noticed that the suitcase Lin Wanqiu left behind was covered with star stickers from various countries. One of them was taken in "Gemini Crater, Norway," and the coordinates matched the star chart of their birthdays.

As the Christmas bells rang, the old locust tree in the courtyard suddenly lit up with twinkling lights—the Swiss sisters had sent a string of fairy lights that had adorned the branches, each bulb containing a note from a patient. Sang Shuwan picked down the most prominent one, inside which was Lin Xiaoxing's handwriting: "My sister said my butterfly hair clip glows because her star lives inside." Sang Jiyue then took down the light from the top of the tree, inside which lay Xiao En's drawing: two little figures holding hands, with twin stars woven from the aurora borealis behind them.

At midnight, Lin Wanqiu stood in front of the glass door, pushing her suitcase, hesitating whether to leave. Sang Shuwan suddenly chased after her, stuffing the pair of red strings into her hands: "Perhaps they were meant to belong to you." Lin Wanqiu froze, looking at the butterfly and star in her palm, tears streaming down her face. Sang Jiyue took a piece of rainbow candy from her pocket and placed it in her trembling hand: "Sometimes, lost stars take a long detour before returning to each other."

The snow fell heavier and heavier, and the three of them built twin snowmen under the old locust tree. Lin Wanqiu tied red strings to them, Sang Shuwan drew eyes on the snowmen with a broken crayon, and Sang Jiyue slipped a Swiss silver ring onto the snowmen's fingers. As the last button was pressed onto the snowmen's hearts, a gust of wind suddenly blew by, and the string lights on the tree lit up simultaneously, casting three shadows on the snow, overlapping to form a gentle clover shape.

At three in the morning, Sang Shuwan was pulled to the rooftop by Sang Jiyue. The snow had stopped, and Gemini was exceptionally clear in the night sky. Next to one of the stars was a moving point of light—a flight bound for the North Pole. Sang Jiyue pointed to the point of light: "Look, doesn't it look like the tin foil stars we used to fold?" Sang Shuwan nodded, remembering how they used to stuff stars into balloons and release them from the window of the chemotherapy room, watching them disappear into the clouds, as if that would send away the pain along with them.

“Actually, I’ve always wanted to ask,” Sang Jiyue suddenly spoke, her voice softer than snowflakes, “what would our lives have been like if we hadn’t been switched at birth?” Sang Shuwan turned to look at her and noticed that the snowflakes on her eyelashes were melting into water droplets, much like the tears that welled up in their eyes when they first learned about each other’s origins. She reached out and took her sister’s hand, pressing it against the scar on her palm: “Then we might never have known that there is someone in this world who can make every wound a source of starlight.”

As the morning light illuminated the snow, Lin Wanqiu's suitcase remained in the entryway, a new label affixed to it: "Temporarily stored, awaiting the return of the twin stars." Sang Shuwan found the diary at the bottom of the suitcase. The first page read: "June 10, 1995, the night of the Geminid meteor shower. I found two red strings at the entrance of the Sang family's old house, covered in dew, like tears of stars." The following pages were fragmented, until the most recent entry: "December 24, 2025, I finally understand that some bonds were already written in the Milky Way, and even separated by thirty years of snow, they will bloom into the brightest star on some Christmas night."

The wind chimes in the courtyard tinkled softly in the morning breeze, startling a few sparrows. Sang Shuwan and Sang Jiyue stood side by side beside the snowman, watching it gradually melt in the rising sun. The red string and silver ring remained in the puddles, reflecting the rising sun like two tiny moons. In the distance, a church hymn drifted, singing the melody of "Stars Never Walk Alone," its sound intertwining with the clear tinkling of the wind chimes, enveloping the entire courtyard in gentle light. "Time to prepare for the New Year's story time," Sang Jiyue said, pulling out a reservation slip. The latest entry made her raise an eyebrow—"Cheng Xingyao, fifteen years old, twin brother, reason for reservation: 'My brother always says I'm his shadow.'" The remarks section read: "Three years after separation surgery for conjoined twins, afraid of losing their shared heartbeat." Sang Shuwan looked at the words "heart surgery" in the remarks and suddenly remembered the electrocardiograms of the two sisters in the Swiss hospital, and the scars on their palms that were forever pressed together.

Pushing open the door to the art therapy room, Sang Shuwan saw a boy in a black hoodie engrossed in his phone, his younger brother in a white hoodie beside him, each with half a star embroidered on their cuffs. She noticed the older brother wore a heart monitoring bracelet on his left wrist, and the younger brother's necklace pendant was two halves of a heart joined together. "He always says my heartbeat is too loud," the younger brother whispered, twisting the hem of his hoodie with his fingers, "but I'm afraid that one day I won't be able to hear it anymore, and I'll never find him again."

Sang Jiyue handed over two sketchbooks: "Try drawing the other person's heartbeat." On the older brother's paper, the heartbeat line was a sharp, jagged wave, while on the younger brother's it was a gentle, wavy line. When the two papers were overlapped, the jagged edges and waves formed a complete twin star pattern, with the point where they met at the center being exactly where they had once been connected. The younger brother suddenly pointed to the jagged edges on his older brother's paper: "So your heartbeat is keeping time for me!"

During lunch break, Sang Shuwan noticed her older brother secretly taking off his monitoring bracelet and putting it on his younger brother's wrist. "The doctor said I'm recovering well, so you can listen to my heartbeat for me." The younger brother touched the cool metal ring and suddenly smiled, his eyes curving into the same shape as when Sang Jiyue told him bedtime stories when they were little. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, casting striped shadows on their intertwined hands, much like the pendulum of an old clock, swaying with the rhythm of reunion through time.

As they saw the guests off at dusk, the younger brother suddenly turned around, took off the necklace, and handed it to Sang Shuwan: "A star for the sisters." The two halves of the heart pendant were joined together, with a tiny '&' symbol engraved on the inside, exactly like the tattoo on the back of Sang Shuwan's neck. The older brother pushed the younger brother into the snow, their footprints varying in depth but always in the same direction, drawing two parallel starlight trails on the snow.

Sang Shuwan and Sang Jiyue stood on the steps, watching the stars of Gemini light up one by one in the twilight. Suddenly, Sang Jiyue pointed to the morning star in the east: "Look, it's approaching Gemini." Sang Shuwan nodded and noticed that the light from the morning star fell precisely on the hollow of the old locust tree, where a string of wind chimes had appeared, made up of countless star-shaped seashells, each containing fragments of stories they had collected.

A breeze rustled through the wind chimes, creating a delicate, clear sound, like countless twin stars whispering, "Thank you for letting me see your light as I fell." Sang Shuwan pulled a red string from her pocket; the knot of butterflies and stars warmed her palm, like holding two beating hearts. Sang Jiyue tightened her scarf, and their shadows overlapped on the snow, gradually blurring into a single, complete star.

On the branches of the old locust tree, the remaining morning glory vines trembled gently in the wind and snow. The seeds planted last year slumbered in the soil, awaiting the first rays of spring starlight to awaken yet another story of twins, of healing, of never being alone. And in the more distant cosmos, the two main stars of Gemini gaze at each other across billions of light-years, using their light to forever inscribe the legend of twin stars on the canvas of the universe: "We were separated, yet never truly apart, for every scar is a birthmark of the Milky Way."

As the first warm breeze of early spring swept through the courtyard, Sang Shuwan was removing the winter protective cloth from the old locust tree. Beneath the coarse linen cloth that had wrapped it all winter, morning glory seeds planted last autumn had sprouted new buds, and the dewdrops clinging to the tips of the tender shoots reflected the image of the last morning star of Gemini. Sang Jiyue, squatting nearby tidying the colored light strings, suddenly picked up a faded red rope from the tree roots—it was a butterfly knot left behind by Lin Wanqiu when she left, the end still entwined with a few newly grown locust tree roots.

"The aurora photos from Switzerland have arrived." Sang Jiyue waved her phone; the screen displayed a multimedia message from Xiao En: the Gemini stars in the polar night hung before a green aurora curtain, one star's halo faintly containing butterfly-shaped clouds, while the other resembled a hand cradling a star. The photo's caption read: "So the light from the Gemini stars can pass through the aurora and bloom in each other's galaxies." Sang Shuwan looked at the photo and suddenly recalled a scene from her dream last night: their red ropes floated in the starry sky, the ends tied to countless glowing paper boats, each carrying the secret of a twin.

The morning story time welcomed its first group of little guests of the new semester, among whom a pair of twins particularly attracted attention—the older sister, Chen Xingran, with her hair tied in a neat ponytail, and her younger brother, Chen Xingche, wearing a hearing aid. Their school uniforms were adorned with badges of the moon and stars, respectively. "Cheche always says he can't hear my heartbeat," Xingran explained softly, her finger gently touching her brother's hearing aid. "But we were born on the same day." Sang Jiyue noticed that Xingche's notebook was covered in wavy lines, while Xingran's textbook was filled with countless sticky notes—her handwritten "sound diary" for her brother.

The floor-to-ceiling windows of the art therapy room faced the courtyard. Xingche suddenly pointed to the old locust tree outside the window: "That tree is talking." Sang Shuwan followed his gaze and saw the spring breeze blowing through the wind chimes in the tree hollow, weaving a delicate tinkling sound among the tender buds. Xingran took off her hearing aid, listened to it, and suddenly smiled: "The stars are saying good morning." Sang Jiyue handed them a box of clay. Xingche used his left hand to mold a crooked star, while Xingran used her right hand to sculpt a waning moon. When the two clay figures were put together, a morning glory seed was perfectly inserted into the gap.

During her lunch break, Sang Shuwan was making fruit tea in the kitchen when she heard Xingran reading a story to her younger brother in the corridor: "Once upon a time, there were two stars, one that could see but not hear, and one that could hear but not see. They chatted across the Milky Way every day until one day they discovered that their light and voice had already woven a net in the universe..." Sunlight filtered through the gauze curtains, casting golden spots in their overlapping shadows, much like the face of the old clock in the Sang family's old house, its hands forever frozen at the moment when Gemini rises.

Before the museum closed at dusk, Xingche suddenly shoved a hearing aid into Sang Shuwan's hand: "Give this to your sister so she can hear the sound of the stars." Sang Jiyue put on the hearing aid and heard a faint white noise inside, much like the heart monitors they had heard in the intensive care unit. Xingran took out a sketchbook from her bag, filled with drawings of old locust trees from different angles. In the corner of each drawing was a small wind chime, and below the wind chimes were written in pencil: "So sound really can be seen, just like your sister's smile, it's the light in my heart."

In the late-night duty room, Sang Shuwan pulled out Lin Wanqiu's diary. The latest page read: "March 12, 2026, planted rose seedlings under the old locust tree in the courtyard. I heard it's a twin-flower variety. While digging the hole, I found a piece of broken porcelain with half a butterfly printed on it, exactly the same as the hair clip I lost years ago." Sang Jiyue leaned over to look and found a yellowed movie ticket stub tucked inside the diary. The date was June 10, 1995, the night of the Gemini meteor shower, and the showtime was "The Legend of Twin Stars".

“I should have been on the night shift that day,” Sang Jiyue pointed to the seat number on the ticket stub, “while you were in the neonatal ward, kept under observation because of high jaundice levels.” Sang Shuwan suddenly remembered the scene in the old housekeeper’s videotape where two babies were holding onto a red rope and refusing to let go, with the silhouettes of nurses walking back and forth in the background—one of them had a butterfly-shaped hair clip pinned to the pocket of his white coat.

At two in the morning, Sang Shuwan was awakened by thunder. She groped her way to the courtyard and saw Sang Jiyue standing under the old locust tree, holding Lin Wanqiu's butterfly hair clip, watering the newly planted rose seedlings. In the instant lightning flashed, she saw that the shards of porcelain from the hair clip perfectly matched the scars on the tree bark, as if they should have been there thirty years ago. "The old housekeeper once said," Sang Jiyue's voice mingled with the sound of rain, "that the meeting of every twin star is a knot tied by the universe."

As the thunder faded into the distance, Sang Shuwan noticed a red rope wrapped around the base of the rose seedling, with the knot of butterflies and stars faintly visible in the muddy water. She suddenly remembered the silver ring her Swiss sisters had sent her; the infinity symbol on the inside was now gleaming in the drawer, much like the overlapping scars on their palms, an ever-open circle drawn by time.

In the morning light, Sang Jiyue received a call from the Swiss hospital. Xiao En and Xiao Hui were in a small town outside the Arctic Circle, mixing new crayon colors using the colors of the aurora borealis. "They said they wanted to invent a color called 'Twin Star Blue'," Sang Jiyue relayed, "a mixture of aurora green and starlight white, just like the morning light we first saw in the hospital room." Sang Shuwan looked out the window; rainbows hung on the tender buds of the old locust tree after the rain, each color corresponding to a story of the stars they had collected.

On the morning's appointment list, a special pair of guests had arrived—seventy-two-year-old twin sisters, each with a butterfly and a star hairpin adorning their white hair respectively. "We've been searching for the star for thirty years," the elder sister said, touching Sang Shuwan's butterfly tattoo. "Back when we were apprentices at the Sang family's old house, we saw eyes exactly like yours." The younger sister unfolded a yellowed handkerchief, on which was embroidered an unfinished twin star pattern, the silk thread the same color as the curtains in the Sang family's old house.

In the art therapy room, two elderly women were mending a star pattern on a handkerchief with gold powder. Sang Shuwan noticed that both of them had burn scars on the back of their hands, shaped like overlapping wings. "That year, the old house caught fire," the older sister said softly, "we each salvaged half of the embroidery and vowed to find someone who could complete it." As the last star was embroidered, the handkerchief was suddenly blown up by the wind, and the gold powder landed on the scars of the old locust tree, forming a complete Gemini constellation.

During her lunch break, Sang Shuwan was making coffee in the kitchen when she heard two elderly people humming a nursery rhyme in the courtyard: "Twin stars, inseparable, one hidden in the rings of time..." She suddenly remembered the meteor shower night in Lin Wanqiu's diary, and the "red thread of fate" that the old housekeeper had mentioned. Her fingers unconsciously traced the scar on her wrist—where gold dust had been applied at some point, looking like a flowing galaxy in the sunlight.

As they saw the guests off at dusk, the younger sister slipped the mended handkerchief into Sang Shuwan's hand: "Put it in the secret tree hollow for us. Perhaps one day, it will meet its other half." A small "L&Z" was embroidered in the corner of the handkerchief, echoing the "S&J" on the back of Sang Shuwan's newly received pearl earrings. The two elderly women walked into the sunset, supporting each other. Their shadows stretched long on the ground, like two trees growing side by side, their roots intertwined in the earth like a net.

Sang Shuwan and Sang Jiyue sat under the old locust tree, watching the stars of Gemini light up in the twilight. Suddenly, Sang Jiyue pointed to the dappled light in the shadows: "Look, doesn't it look like the heartbeat we drew for Brother Cheng Xingyao?" The flickering points of light indeed formed undulating waves, one fast, one slow, yet creating a harmonious rhythm when they met. Sang Shuwan took out a handkerchief and gently placed it into the tree hollow, finding a rose seed inside, its tender shoot growing upwards along the golden veins of the Gemini constellation.

The wind rustled through the wind chimes, carrying the distant sound of a ship's horn, but turning into a soft sigh as it entered the courtyard. Sang Shuwan leaned on Sang Jiyue's shoulder, smelling the lingering scent of cedar on her scarf, and suddenly understood that all encounters and separations were verses written by the universe—those cracks that she once thought were wounds were actually places where starlight shone through, signposts for twin stars to find each other.

In the rings of the old locust tree, another memory of spring has been added. And in the more distant starry sky, the two stars of Gemini are changing positions as the Earth rotates, yet they forever maintain the same gravitational pull, just like the palm lines of Sang Shuwan and Sang Jiyue. No matter how they stretch out, they will eventually overlap again in the palm of fate, weaving an everlasting legend of twin stars.

Deep in the courtyard, the wind chimes in the secret tree hollow tinkled softly once more. This time, the sound carried a new rhythm, like the crisp sound of new buds breaking through the soil, or the whispers of blooming roses. Sang Shuwan closed her eyes and heard Sang Jiyue whisper in her ear, "Listen, the stars are growing leaves." So they sat quietly, in the deepening starlight, waiting for the first twin rose to bloom, waiting for yet another story of healing, of bonds, of never walking alone, to grow luminous roots in the soil of time.

Sang Jiyue leaned against the gilded railing of her private yacht, the champagne glass between her fingers reflecting her figure on the other side of the deck. Sang Shuwan wore a plain linen shirt, the sound of her suitcase wheels rolling over the teak floor particularly jarring. She lowered her eyes and fiddled with the emerald bracelet on her wrist—a family heirloom only possessed by the direct descendants of the Sang family, its quality exactly the same as the one on Sang Shuwan's wrist.

“My cousin finally deigned to come on vacation with me,” Sang Jiyue said with a smirk, her red nail polish making a soft swishing sound as it brushed against the glass. “Why the long face? Are you afraid I’ll push you overboard to feed the sharks?” The sea breeze lifted the hem of her chiffon skirt, but Sang Shuwan noticed the thorn tattoo on her ankle—it was strikingly similar in shape to the scar below her collarbone.

The shadow of the Sang family's old mansion surged in her memory. Three years ago, at a family banquet, Sang Jiyue fell down the spiral staircase in twelve-centimeter high heels, and public opinion nailed Sang Shuwan to the pillar of shame for "intentionally pushing someone." At this moment, the yacht sailed into international waters, and Sang Shuwan looked at the diamond necklace dangling around the other's neck, a token of coming-of-age that should have belonged to her.

“A new script from Sang’s Film Studio,” she pushed the brown paper bag across the bar, the ice cubes rising and falling in the whiskey, exuding a chilling aura. “The role of the second female lead, it’s perfect for you.” Sang Jiyue raised an eyebrow and took the script, her fingertips lingering on the words “scheming supporting female character,” when she suddenly burst into tears of laughter: “My cousin is indeed generous. I didn’t see you being this generous when you snatched my role back then.”

As twilight soaked the sea, Sang Jiyue suddenly pulled Sang Shuwan into the deck pool. The salty spray filled their mouths and noses, and Sang Shuwan, on the verge of suffocation, grabbed the other's waist, only to touch a raised scar—identical in shape to the cut on her own back from a shard of porcelain. The two stared at each other at the bottom of the pool, bubbles carrying the unspoken truth rising to the surface, startling a flock of terns as they burst.

“You saved me that year,” Sang Jiyue’s wet eyelashes clung to her eyelids, water droplets splattering down her chin onto Sang Shuwan’s hand. “Why didn’t you explain?” A distant thunderclap swept across the clouds. Sang Shuwan looked at the dark currents surging in her eyes and suddenly remembered the night of the fire at the old house. In the same torrential rain, who was it that sheltered her under the bookshelf, her back slashed and bloodied by a falling photo frame?

The yacht rocked in the storm. As Sang Shuwan was pressed against the bulkhead, she smelled the lingering scent of orange blossom essential oil in Sang Jiyue's hair—the scent that their shared grandmother loved most. "The daughters of the Sang family shouldn't kill each other," she said, loosening her water-soaked tie to reveal a gruesome scar below her collarbone. "But you and I both know that some wounds will never heal."

The torrential rain continued throughout the night. At dawn, Sang Jiyue stood on the deck watching Sang Shuwan pack her luggage, the emerald on the other's wrist gleaming coldly in the morning light. Suddenly, she tore off her own necklace and stuffed it into Sang Shuwan's palm: "Wear this to see the old man, and tell him... I begged you to play the lead role." Sang Shuwan's fingertips curled up, the metal chain digging painfully into her palm. In the distance, a golden line split the sea horizon, cleaving their overlapping shadows in two.

As the roar of the helicopter shattered the morning mist, Sang Jiyue smiled, touching the thorn tattoo on her ankle. It was a wound inflicted by steel bars on the night of the fire three years ago, when she shielded Sang Shuwan from a falling beam. Meanwhile, the medical report in the lining of Sang Shuwan's backpack, its words still clear despite being soaked in seawater, read: "Sang Jiyue, old lumbar spine injury..."

The sea breeze swept away the last wisp of cloud, and the two speedboats headed off to different sea areas. Sang Shuwan glanced at her watch; there were still three hours until the family meeting. She touched the diamond necklace that had suddenly appeared around her neck; the pendant was engraved with tiny letters: SY&SW. In the distance, dolphins leaped out of the water, the sound of the waves carrying the unfinished reconciliation between two generations, shattering into shimmering light in the rising sun.