Yu Wanqiu only glanced over, which made Ming Yao feel even more defeated.
She ran back to ask her fellow crew members who was playing the role of Wu Qing, but no one in the group knew either.
The character of Wu Qing was significant, spanning three life stages: youth, middle age, and old age. It wasn’t impossible for Yu Wanqiu to play her.
Ming Yao had only landed a minor role in The Poplar Forest, filming for seven or eight days, with just a few seconds of screen time in the final cut—purely background filler.
The others in her group were recognizable names in the entertainment industry, all there for a quick cameo.
The lead actor had yet to be officially announced, and Ming Yao never imagined it would be Yu Wanqiu.
"Has the lead arrived? Who is it?" someone in the group asked curiously.
Ming Yao replied with a complicated expression, "Probably Yu Wanqiu… I just saw her."
No matter who won Best Actress at the Golden Bear Awards, in this regard, she had lost—utterly and completely.
"Yu Wanqiu? Then it’s a sure thing."
Ming Yao’s mood grew even more tangled. She had always believed that a strong rival would push her to improve, but it seemed Yu Wanqiu had never considered her a rival from the start.
Perhaps she should lower her ambitions. Otherwise, she might spend the rest of her career living in Yu Wanqiu’s shadow, never able to break free.
There was no point in trying to ride Yu Wanqiu’s coattails anymore. Even if she won Best Actress at the Golden Bear Awards, so what?
Yu Wanqiu had already won it once.
Ming Yao didn’t want to cross her.
Yu Wanqiu glanced over, then turned back to continue scouting locations with Liu Qingyun.
Liu Qingyun remarked, "You know that girl, right? Ming Yao. During the initial costume fitting, she refused to darken her face. I told her if she wasn’t willing, she could get out of the crew. I won’t indulge her diva behavior."
Liu Qingyun had a very poor impression of Ming Yao. If she caused any more trouble, she’d really be kicked off the set.
After finishing the location scouting, Liu Qingyun took Yu Wanqiu for a costume test.
Clothing options were limited in that era. Throughout the filming, Yu Wanqiu would wear only four outfits, later patched and repatched.
Multiple identical sets were prepared in case of damage or stains.
Yu Wanqiu didn’t need to deliberately "uglify" herself—that would disrespect Wu Qing. Liu Qingyun focused only on making the makeup reflect the period.
Besides, from historical footage, Wu Qing had been a beautiful woman.
Liu Qingyun said, "Wanqiu, I hope we can complete this film together."
Yu Wanqiu nodded solemnly. "I will."
Not "I’ll do my best," but "I will."
The filming conditions were harsh. The actors slept in temporary tents, and the northwestern climate was much colder than in B City, especially at night.
After a few days, morale on set was low. Not only were the actors struggling, but the crew was also worn down.
The nearest town was far away, leaving them isolated in a rural area with no delivery options. The dry, dusty environment posed constant challenges.
When Yu Wanqiu felt like giving up, she would read the notes Wu Qing had left behind. During the day, Wu Qing planted trees; at night, she wrote by the stovelight.
Every stroke of her pen was deliberate, every word clear.
Every cent in her ledger was painstakingly saved through frugality.
Thinking of this made the hardships of filming seem bearable.
The poor conditions, combined with days of overcast rain, aggravated Yu Wanqiu’s old injuries—her lower back and legs ached dully.
It was a chronic issue with no cure. Chen and Little Xu could only do their best, applying heating pads and plugging in an electric blanket.
But she couldn’t use them while filming. Shooting lasted entire days, and for summer scenes, she wore short sleeves despite the cold.
The physical discomfort wasn’t the worst part. The real struggle was the constant retakes—some scenes required dozens of attempts.
By late October, they were filming the scene where Wu Qing’s husband passed away. Liu Qingyun felt Yu Wanqiu’s emotional progression wasn’t quite there. Though Yu Wanqiu’s performance was already excellent—Liu Qingyun had cried with each take—she still sensed something missing.
Yu Wanqiu followed the script: Wu Qing wept silently upon hearing the news of her husband’s death. There was too much left to do; she couldn’t even bring his ashes home.
Wu Qing was only in her forties then. She lived to 96, spending the next fifty years alone. No one could replace her husband, the man who had abandoned his career as a university professor to join her, only to fall ill and die in this desolate place.
The script described Wu Qing’s grief as restrained.
But Yu Wanqiu broke down. The weight of the story crushed her—the outsider’s helplessness, the suffocating burden, the feeling of the sky collapsing. She couldn’t shoulder it all.
Her eyes swelled from crying. In just twenty days, she had lost six pounds, now weighing only 84 pounds, her frame gaunt.
She rarely called home. Wu Qing’s emotions left her not only heartbroken but sleepless.
Sometimes Yu Wanqiu wondered: How had Wu Qing endured such suffering?
Liu Qingyun called cut, wiping her own tears. "Wanqiu, take a break. This take still isn’t right…"
She replayed the scene. Yu Wanqiu’s acting was flawless—the entire crew had wept with her.
Yet Liu Qingyun believed she could go deeper.
Off set, behind the crew, Jiang Lan quietly wiped her tears. She had come to visit.
A week earlier, she had asked Little Xu to arrange it with Liu Qingyun. Today was her birthday, and she wanted to share a cake with Yu Wanqiu—even if Yu Wanqiu only took one bite.
Yu Wanqiu had lost so much weight. Her long hair was gone, cut into a bob. Such beautiful hair, sacrificed without hesitation.
Even in late October, the temperature in the northwest hovered around 50°F, yet Yu Wanqiu wore only a thin shirt. The wind billowed through her sleeves and pant legs, making her look like the poplar trees they’d passed on the way—resilient, unyielding.
Jiang Lan pressed her lips together, turning away to compose herself. Beside her, Lu Yicheng’s eyes were red. He patted her shoulder.
Jiang Lan took a deep breath. "I’ll go greet the director first. You distribute the snacks we brought. I’ll see Teacher Yu in a bit."
She had been excited for her birthday, but now, joy felt impossible.
Liu Qingyun knew Jiang Lan was coming. Visits were allowed, but no photos or leaks about the production.
The real reason Liu Qingyun permitted it was Yu Wanqiu’s deteriorating emotional state. Great stories, when truly felt, could be overwhelming.
An actor’s duty was to embody a role, to live it.
After twenty days of isolation, half the filming was done—progress was good. Liu Qingyun didn’t want to linger on this scene.
"Go see her. She seems on the verge of collapse," Liu Qingyun said, her own eyes red. She had cried as many times as Yu Wanqiu had.
The environment in the northwest is harsh, with strong winds and sandstorms, which take a heavy toll on the actors' bodies. But the greatest toll is emotional. This scene has been shot dozens of times, and each take requires crying. Actors are more emotionally sensitive than most, but even they can't endure such relentless strain...
Yu Wanqiu sat beneath a poplar tree.
It was autumn, and the leaves of the poplar had turned yellow, some scattered on the ground, swirling in the wind.
She felt as though she had walked into a dead end, unsure how to find her way out. The further she went, the narrower the path became.
Yu Wanqiu felt her body split in two—half of her was Wu Qing, and the other half was herself.
It was agonizing.
Just as she had said during the audition, she could never become someone like Wu Qing.
Yu Wanqiu even began to wonder if she was truly suited for this role. If she couldn’t perform it well, she didn’t want to ruin the character.
Her head lowered, she suddenly noticed a white tissue appear in front of her.
When she looked up, she saw someone who shouldn’t have been there smiling at her.
Yu Wanqiu thought her eyes were playing tricks on her. She blinked, but Jiang Lan was still there.
Jiang Lan couldn’t help but laugh. "You look stunned. Here, wipe your face."
Yu Wanqiu didn’t move. Her lips trembled, and she felt like crying again. Jiang Lan crouched down, first hugging her, then gently wiping her tears with the tissue. "It’s okay now. It’s all over. Don’t be sad anymore."
Yu Wanqiu’s hands were cold. Though only a little over twenty days had passed since they last met, she seemed like a completely different person.
"How did you get here? When did you arrive?" Yu Wanqiu’s voice carried the accent of the northwest, hoarse and thick with congestion.
Jiang Lan smoothed Yu Wanqiu’s hair. "I got here this morning. I spoke to the director first—only came because he allowed it. I’m here to bring you a birthday cake."
Jiang Lan’s birthday fell on the sixteenth day of the ninth lunar month. This was her first birthday since losing her memories. Before university, she celebrated at home; after, she spent it with Lu Yicheng, Xu Xiang, and the others.
This was the first year she had known Yu Wanqiu. No grand celebration was needed—just sharing a cake together would be enough.
Yu Wanqiu had completely forgotten. Today was the sixteenth. "I didn’t remember… Jiang Lan…"
Jiang Lan smiled. "Consider this hug your birthday gift. You were amazing in that scene just now, Teacher Yu. You were incredible."
She had taken the liberty of treating their reunion as the gift. "Seriously, Lu Yicheng even cried. I’ve never seen him cry before. He always thought of you as his mother, so he could never immerse himself in your films. We usually watched other movies together. But this time, he was moved to tears. He’ll probably go back and binge all your films now. Finally, he’s been proven wrong—he realizes now just how incredible his mother is as an actress."
Jiang Lan continued, "He’s deeply moved, and so proud of you. Teacher Yu, so am I."
Yu Wanqiu sniffled, her eyes glistening. A sudden realization flashed through her mind.
She finally understood what had been missing in her performance earlier.
Worth.
Wu Qing believed everything she did was worth it. No matter how much she cried or suffered, she never regretted it. She never felt that time or the desert had taken her husband away. Never.
In all her years on the Gobi, Wu Qing had never once doubted her choices.
Others questioned her, but Wu Qing never did. Not once.
It was a kind of faith. Yu Wanqiu reached out and pulled Jiang Lan into a tight embrace. "Jiang Lan, happy birthday."
After composing herself, Yu Wanqiu went to find Liu Qingyun to reshoot the scene. This time, it was done in a single take—smooth and flawless. Liu Qingyun smiled in relief and gave Yu Wanqiu half a day off.
"Get some rest. Eat something." Liu Qingyun patted Yu Wanqiu’s shoulder. Though she didn’t know what had caused such a dramatic improvement in just a few minutes, it was a blessing for the production.
This take was different from the dozens before.
Yu Wanqiu apologized, "I’m sorry for delaying the crew’s progress."
The crew had been crying nonstop these past few days. The more they watched, the more they were moved by the selflessness and courage of those who had lived through those times. It was profoundly stirring.
For Yu Wanqiu to bring this character to life was no small feat.
Liu Qingyun shook her head. "You’ve actually sped things up. Go on now."
Lu Yicheng distributed the milk tea and desserts he had brought. The location was remote, making it difficult to buy such treats.
The crew’s meals were simple, cooked in large pots by locals.
They hadn’t had milk tea or cake in over twenty days. Since none of them needed to diet, they indulged happily.
The cake and milk tea were heavenly. They secretly wished someone would visit the set like this every day.
Jiang Lan didn’t see Ming Yao, and Yu Wanqiu hadn’t seen her in a long time either. She didn’t dwell on it—those who fixated on others would never grow.
Liu Qingyun didn’t bother mentioning trivial matters within the crew. Half a month ago, Ming Yao had left because she couldn’t endure the harsh conditions.
Her mood had been unstable lately. The environment was tough, and Ming Yao, having lived a sheltered life, had never experienced such hardship before.
The production team wouldn’t make a fuss about it. After all, her side had paid compensation. If she didn’t want the role, plenty of others did.
After sharing the treats with the crew, Jiang Lan and Yu Wanqiu returned to her small hut.
The makeshift shelter was simple, with few belongings inside. There was a water heater, so she could shower daily, but beyond that, luxuries were scarce.
Jiang Lan had brought plenty of supplies—warming patches, foot warmers, a portable heater, chocolates, and energy bars.
A whole bag of food and essentials.
Yu Wanqiu finally looked relaxed.
Lu Yicheng kept his head down. He had never watched Yu Wanqiu’s films before—he always found it hard to separate her from the role of his mother.
But now, things were different. He saw the greatness in the characters she portrayed, and in Yu Wanqiu herself.
Yu Wanqiu asked how they had traveled here and how things were at home.
She wanted to ask about Lu Shuangchen—how he was doing, whether everything was alright—but she hesitated.
Lu Yicheng answered, "We took the train, then a bus, and finally rented a car. I drove the rest of the way. Not many tourists come out here, but the scenery up ahead isn’t bad. Dad’s fine—goes to work and comes home on time every day."
Apart from work, he spent his time rewatching Yu Wanqiu’s films. Lu Shuangchen had been her first fan, revisiting every movie countless times.
They hadn’t told Lu Shuangchen about this trip. Over the past month, Lu Yicheng had rarely gone home. He spent every day with Jiang Lan, inseparable. Life at school was happy, but seeing Yu Wanqiu like this made his heart ache.
As a child, he had envied others who had their parents around. In high school, he had envied Jiang Lan. But after falling in love, he had slowly come to terms with it.
Yu Wanqiu and Lu Shuangchen had busy careers. Though they hadn’t been around much, they had provided him with a privileged life. He had no right to complain.
This was Lu Yicheng’s first time visiting Yu Wanqiu on set. He realized how much he had misunderstood her. His mother’s career was extraordinary, and he was grateful she hadn’t sacrificed it for him. "Mom."
Yu Wanqiu looked up. "Hmm?"
Lu Yicheng said, "The short hair looks good on you."
It was a family trait—words always carried hidden meanings, and pride required carefully laid steps to descend.
Lu Shuangchen spoke the same way. Lu Yicheng was just like his father.
Yu Wanqiu chuckled. "Good? Oh, don’t even mention it. I nearly cried when they cut it."
That long hair—one snip of the scissors, and the rest was just a simple trim. That scene was shot in one take. In the film, Yu Wanqiu wore a resolute expression, but off-camera, she had to console herself for a long time.
Still, it counted as growth—an opportunity to experience a different hairstyle.
There was only one month left until filming wrapped up. By then, it would be late December.
Lu Shuangchen had mentioned visiting her on set, but Yu Wanqiu refused. She didn’t think she looked good enough—too thin, dried out, unhealthy, with messy hair.
But Lu Yicheng said she looked beautiful.
Jiang Lan agreed, "Trying out a new style is great! I’d love to try short hair too—it’d be so cool and stylish."
Who said girls couldn’t rock short hair?
Yu Wanqiu was truly happy today, not just because the scene went well, but also because of Jiang Lan.
She made her understand the meaning of the word "worth it."
Sometimes, all it took was a hug to remind her she wasn’t alone.
With half a day off, they had to go out for a proper meal. Yu Wanqiu could afford to gain a little weight now. Even on set, Liu Qingyun urged her to eat more.
Dinner was stir-fried dishes, along with a birthday cake Lu Yicheng had prepared. Jiang Lan made a single wish—for Yu Wanqiu to smoothly finish filming Salute.
She didn’t ask for anything more. After dinner and cake, the two of them escorted Yu Wanqiu back to the set before settling for the night at a hotel in town, planning to return the next morning.
They booked a standard room with two single beds.
As soon as Jiang Lan entered, she tossed her backpack onto the table, checked the room for hidden cameras, and secured the door latch.
Lu Yicheng was even more nervous than she was.
They’d shared a room before when traveling—it was safer that way. He’d never feel comfortable letting Jiang Lan stay alone.
Being young, of course they’d want to kiss, hug, and be close—it was only natural.
But they hadn’t crossed that line yet.
Back then, Jiang Lan used to love looking at him. Lu Yicheng thought his physique was decent, so after showering, when he was all clean, she’d stare at him with obvious appreciation.
Lu Yicheng asked which bed Jiang Lan wanted.
She chose the one by the window—a single bed, 1.2 meters wide, and quite soft.
Lu Yicheng said, "You go shower first and get some rest. The trip was tiring, and you cried earlier. We have another ride tomorrow."
Jiang Lan nodded. She really was exhausted. Once she went into the bathroom, Lu Yicheng quickly pulled out a gift box from his bag and scattered rose petals around it.
A birthday celebration had to include a gift.
When Jiang Lan stepped out after her shower, she thought she’d time-traveled again.
Lu Yicheng cleared his throat. "The final event of the day—unwrapping your birthday gift. If you like it, your boyfriend will keep it up. If not, please kindly offer feedback, and he’ll work on improvements."
His gaze softened. "Go on, open it."
Lu Yicheng had a history of failed gifts—lipsticks, bags—things Jiang Lan didn’t particularly care for. Later, he switched to smaller items or just taking her out to eat.
It wasn’t until after summer break that he started learning how to create surprises. Looking back, he realized he’d been the one enjoying the relationship before, basking in everything Jiang Lan brought to it.
He’d been bored, doing the same mundane things every day, with only a handful of ideas to offer.
Jiang Lan chuckled. "Honestly, the cake was more than enough. Just having you come with me to visit Yu Wanqiu made me really happy."
Lu Yicheng insisted, "Just take the gift! Hurry up and open it."
Jiang Lan teased, "Let me guess first—is it food?"
Lu Yicheng: "Nope."
Jiang Lan tried again, "Then… never mind, I’ll just open it."
The box was rectangular. Inside was a book.
Jiang Lan glanced at Lu Yicheng before flipping it open. The first page held two photos—one of each of them as babies.
Newborns, tiny and fragile. The difference was, she was grinning at the camera, while Lu Yicheng wore a solemn little frown.
Jiang Lan didn’t even remember seeing her own baby photos. "Where did you get these? Did you visit my house during National Day?"
Lu Yicheng had gone to Jiang Lan’s home on October 1st, cooking and helping with chores. It wasn’t hard to casually bring it up—Xie Yunzhen would naturally pull out Jiang Lan’s childhood photos. "See? Teacher Xie really likes me."
The second page showed them at one year old. Jiang Lan had far more photos than Lu Yicheng, but thankfully, each page only had a few, so he could still manage.
Lu Yicheng remarked, "I looked so serious as a kid. See? Barely smiling."
Before meeting Jiang Lan in high school, people often called him aloof. After meeting her, he’d overthink every word, only to end up staying silent.
Compared to before, he’d changed so much—willing to be silly, to make her laugh, to shed all pretense of coolness around her.
Jiang Lan thought he was adorable—a little heartthrob even back then.
The photo album chronicled their lives year by year, from childhood to adulthood.
The further in, the fewer photos Lu Yicheng had, while Jiang Lan’s collection grew.
High school graduation photos, then snapshots from university—their time together.
As Jiang Lan browsed, Lu Yicheng watched her. "See? When I visit your place, I look for your old photos. But when you visit mine, you just whisper with my mom—probably gossiping about me and my dad."
Jiang Lan feigned innocence. "What? No way. We’d never."
Lu Yicheng smirked. "Sure… you and Xu Xiang have definitely talked trash about me before."
Jiang Lan couldn’t hold back her laughter this time. "How did you even know that?"
Lu Yicheng: "…I didn’t. Until now."
Jiang Lan looked up at the ceiling. "Okay, fine, but it wasn’t that much. Besides, who brags about their relationship to their best friend?"
Keeping frustrations bottled up wasn’t healthy.
She’d only secretly called Lu Yicheng a big idiot once or twice.
Lately, she hadn’t been mad at him much. "I just told Xu Xiang you’re a little dummy."
Jiang Lan flipped further and found photos from their variety show appearances.
"Lu Yicheng, I really love this birthday gift." She smiled. "Thank you."
Lu Yicheng muttered, "Little dummy? You’re the little dummy…"
Who was she calling names? But she was the one at fault here.
Jiang Lan took a deep breath. "Let’s take more photos together from now on."
She now had two photo books—one with Yu Wanqiu, made by fans, and this one with Lu Yicheng.
She truly adored it. Leaning in, she quickly kissed him. "Goodnight kiss."
Lu Yicheng caught her hand, pleading softly, "Can we make it a little longer tonight?"
