Night.
The applause from the last performance had just faded.
As the curtain closed again, it stirred a faint current of air, pushing the residual sound waves to both sides.
The curtain finally came to rest, the dark red velvet still holding the residual warmth of the lights—the spotlights, face lights, and color washes that had illuminated the previous story were now going out one by one, like slowly closing eyes.
The stage fell into brief darkness.
Then came the work lights.
Pale, merciless tube lights came on along the side stage, illuminating everything the audience shouldn’t see: the messy dance shoe prints on the floor, the scratches left by the props crew hastily dragging scenery, a few scattered fake flower petals in the corner—in the previous performance, they had been the most beautiful blossom on a certain tree.
Staff moved silently back and forth.
Someone crouched on the floor wiping away spilled glitter with a wet cloth, someone pushed a huge backdrop deeper into the wing, the pulley making a faint creak.
The air still carried the fragrance of the previous show—a specific stage perfume, sweet and artificial, mixed with sweat and the smell of dust baked by hot lights.
At the center of the stage, a small square area had been left empty.
That was where the next story would begin.
A props person walked quickly across the stage floor carrying a black case; inside was liquid for the snow machine, sloshing with a faint splash.
Another person passed by holding a crumpled dust cover; inside was something shiny, and for a second a glint of crushed diamond escaped before being swallowed by the fabric.
Behind the side curtains, the dressing room door was open a crack.
Sounds could be heard from inside—not the noise of the previous performance’s actors, but quiet, focused sounds: the muffled thud of a powder puff pressing against skin, the click of hair clips biting into hair.
A wisp of makeup fragrance slipped out through the door crack, mixing with the remaining stage odors.
New scents began to cover the old.
The lighting technician adjusted parameters at the control console, fingers sliding slowly over faders, zeroing out the previous show’s color temperature bit by bit.
The lamp rig above made a faint electrical hum.
In the orchestra pit, the cellist had already taken her seat.
She plucked two strings lightly to tune, the sound low and deep, rolling through the empty theater before fading.
A new score was placed on the music stand; in the corner of the first page were written two words: “Snow” and “Gem.”
At the seam of the curtain, the audience lights had dimmed more than halfway.
Sounds could be heard from that side—sparse coughing, the rustle of program booklets, the squeak of chair springs compressing under weight.
The work lights went out.
The stage sank back into darkness.
But this darkness was different from before—the earlier darkness was rest, an ending; the current darkness was held breath, the stillness of a bowstring pulled taut before release.
Deep in the wings, the rustle of skirts brushing, extremely soft and delicate, like butterfly wings.
Then footsteps—not the hurried, solid steps of staff, but tiptoed, cautious paces, step by step, moving from the depths of darkness toward the edge of the stage.
A new scent drifted in.
Not the sweet floral of the previous show, but cold, clean, with a metallic edge—the smell of crushed diamonds and frost.
The curtain was still closed.
But everyone knew that behind the curtain, something had been prepared.
The spotlight casing turned slightly with a faint click, as if adjusting its breath.
The red light next to the snow machine nozzle flashed once, then went out.
Then it fell silent.
Complete, utter silence.
Even the coughing in the audience stopped.
The entire theater was like a vessel filled with stillness, waiting for something to break it.
Through the seam of the curtain, a thread of light seeped in.
Gentle, warm light with a hint of pink—like the farthest glow of dawn, hesitant and tentative, seeping through the folds of the curtain.
Someone took a deep breath behind the curtain.
Very soft, very long, like a bow slowly drawn on a string.
Then, nothing happened.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
The silence continued.
But that silence now had a shape—tiptoed feet, arms raised halfway, fingers pressed at the corners of the mouth, just about to lift into a smile.
On the other side of the curtain, someone was smiling.
No one had seen that smile yet.
But the air had changed.
The stage knew.
The lights knew.
The snow knew.
The ruby forehead ornament resting on the velvet tray glimmered faintly in the dark—like a star that woke up early.
The music box melody began to play.
They stood up, bowed to the darkness, and then—
[Gem] and [Snow].
Spin.
***
The audience lights were still dim.
But the atmosphere was different.
Like the heavy, low-hanging stillness of the sky before snow falls.
After the light, the skirt moved.
Chuxue’s—cold white silk came alive from stillness, rolling up from her ankles like a flower in time-lapse photography.
The skirt didn’t move on its own—she turned.
With her left foot as the pivot, her right foot swept out, and her body began to spin along that arc.
The moment the skirt spread, the silver lining flashed, like the first ray of moonlight reflected on a snowy field.
Alice turned with her.
Echoing—the warm white skirt spread to the other side as she spun in the opposite direction.
The two of them, one left, one right, crossed paths at the center of the stage.
In the moment they brushed past, their skirts touched, cold white and warm white overlapping for a second before separating.
Their figures intertwined, skirts blooming into a huge flower, crimson, pink-white, silver light overlapping and spinning, kicking up the snow at their feet, mixing with crushed diamonds, flying in a flurry into the air.
Spin.
Gem and snow—indistinguishable from each other.
The audience began to stir.
“Ah”—short, soft, like something hit them in the chest and they had to open their mouths.
One, then ten, then a hundred, then countless.
Those short, wordless sounds rose from every corner of the audience, one after another, like raindrops just starting to fall, drop by drop hitting the leaves, still countable.
Then the rain grew heavier.
When 30,000 mouths opened at once, nothing could be heard clearly.
No words, no melody, only a wave of sound—starting from the front row, pushing toward the back, hitting the rear wall and bouncing back, piling up with the waves coming from behind, layering thicker and thicker until you could feel it—a numbness on your skin, a pressing sensation on your eardrums wave after wave, like standing at the seashore as surf crashes one after another.
The program board at the top of the stage lit up for a moment, showing a famous duet—
“First Snow, White Snow.”
Two people on stage.
One wore a snow-white dress, the collar trimmed with delicate silver edges and sequins—real silver thread, stitched in one by one, not reflective under the light, just glowing faintly, like the thin frost on a snow-covered roof on a winter night.
She opened her mouth.
[I’ve been drifting alone]
[Drifting for so long]
On stage, only light.
Very faint light, falling from far above, scattered, soft, like moonlight leaking through gaps in clouds.
The light fell on the center of the stage, on the repeatedly wiped floorboard, illuminating the traces left behind—older things: scratches from dance shoes, faint marks from props dragged, fine lines from knees striking the floor in some past performance.
Chuxue’s long white hair hung loose, the ends reaching her waist, glowing with a faint blue under the light.
[Now I’m here]
[Never to be apart from now on]
The other person was Alice.
She stood on the right.
No one saw when she came out.
It was as if she had always been there—like before the snow fell, she was already there.
Her pink twin tails were tied a little lower than usual, the hair ties white, wrapped three times.
Her dress was white, but not Chuxue’s cold white—it was warm white, like snow that had been sun-warmed, the edges tinged with a faint pink.
The sound came from the speakers.
Not the kind amplified by microphones and processed by mixers—it was the original voice, straight from the throat.
Very soft, soft like whispering in your ear.
Alice held out her hand.
Chuxue looked at that hand.
Looked for two seconds.
Then she reached out and took it.
Two hands held together under the light.
One warm, one cool.
Just held like that, not tight, not loose, like two snowflakes touched in the air and then fell together.
The music played.
Not an intro—it came in directly, a single piano note, one after another, very slow, very heavy.
It didn’t come from the speakers; it seeped from the depths of the stage, like snow falling from the sky—not as if it were played, but as if it had always been there.
[I am the first snowflake of winter]
[Careful, afraid to startle the world]
Alice let go and stepped back.
Chuxue’s hand dropped, but didn’t pull back.
It just hung at her side, fingers slightly curled, as if still holding something.
[Dare not speak loudly, dare not breathe heavily]
[Only dare to gently land on your eyelashes]
When Chuxue sang, her eyes looked at the audience again.
Not just looking at the audience—looking further, at the wall behind the audience, at the night sky beyond that wall, at the invisible snow falling in that night sky.
[I am the deepest snow of winter]
[Accumulated for so long, finally waiting for this day]
Her voice was like a frozen lake—flat, smooth, hard.
But something was moving beneath the ice—water, living water, water ready to burst through any crack.
Alice stepped forward.
Stood beside her—shoulder to shoulder, skirt to skirt.
Warm white and cold white together, like moonlight falling on a snowy field.
[Hiding all the warmth in my heart]
[Just so that when I meet you, I can give you a little more]
They sang together.
Voices overlapped, one clear and cold, one warm.
[Finally waited for you]
[Glad I didn’t give up]
[One person is too cold]
[Two people make the whole winter]
The cold didn’t suppress, the warmth didn’t support—they just let them be, let them collide on their own, tangling, spiraling, rising above the stage, up to the ceiling, hitting the lamp rig, shattering into countless pieces, fluttering down like snow.
The lights changed.
—A gradient.
From the cold white beam overhead, a warm color slowly seeped out.
Like sunrise, little by little, from the edges inward.
The light around Chuxue was cold white; the light around Alice was warm white.
At the boundary between them, the two lights mixed into an indescribable color—both white and pink, a transparent brightness.
[First Snow, White Snow]
[Snow that falls together]
In the audience, the support lights kept flashing.
One lit up, then another—then patches lit up.
Half white, half pink.
The white ones, the pink ones, the two colors mixed at the center of the audience just like on stage, the boundary indistinguishable.
[Soft and gentle, layer upon layer]
[Covering the entire world]
Alice walked forward.
Away from Chuxue, toward the front of the stage.
She walked to the very front, crouched down.
The skirt spread on the floor, the warm white fabric glowing with a faint pink under the light.
[First Snow, White Snow]
[You I met together]
She stood up.
Turned.
Walked back to Chuxue.
Halfway, she started running.
A light, bouncing run—the skirt lifted by the wind, floating behind her.
Her two twin tails bounced with each step.
She ran to Chuxue and stopped.
She looked at Chuxue.
Chuxue looked at her.
Then she reached out and took her hand—then opened her arms.
Chuxue froze.
The thing on her lashes trembled but didn’t fall.
She looked at Alice’s open arms for two seconds.
Then she stepped forward.
Into the embrace.
They held each other.
Alice’s chin rested on Chuxue’s shoulder, Chuxue’s hands on Alice’s back.
One pink, one white.
Just held there, not tight, not loose.
[Will you catch us]
[Let us never melt in your heart]
As she sang the last line, Alice lifted her head from Chuxue’s shoulder.
Looked at the sea of lights below—the boundary between white and pink, blurred.
Couldn’t tell which belonged to Chuxue, which to Alice.
All mixed together into a single gentle, transparent color, like the sky before dawn.
[Before, it was always one person dancing]
[The reflection in the mirror was the only audience]
[Afraid being too dazzling would disturb someone]
[Afraid being too quiet would be forgotten]