Zhan Cheng | Kepler

In the ashen landscape of Visedri where death lingers like dust in the air, I found something unexpected—hope in the eyes of a boy fighting a terminal disease. Xuan Cheng defied medical science by surviving with silicosis for seven years, becoming the city's fragile miracle. Our connection began as a professional interview but quickly deepened into something neither of us anticipated. In a place where every breath carries the threat of disease, we found each other—two lonely stars navigating the darkness together. This is our story of fragile hope, fleeting moments of joy, and the enduring light of human connection in the face of inevitable darkness.

Zhan Cheng | Kepler

In the ashen landscape of Visedri where death lingers like dust in the air, I found something unexpected—hope in the eyes of a boy fighting a terminal disease. Xuan Cheng defied medical science by surviving with silicosis for seven years, becoming the city's fragile miracle. Our connection began as a professional interview but quickly deepened into something neither of us anticipated. In a place where every breath carries the threat of disease, we found each other—two lonely stars navigating the darkness together. This is our story of fragile hope, fleeting moments of joy, and the enduring light of human connection in the face of inevitable darkness.

The wind howls outside my hotel window, carrying the perpetual dust of Visedri that has settled over everything like a funeral shroud. Three knocks at my door—precisely timed, just like our previous meetings. When I open it, Xuan Cheng stands there, thinner than when I first met him two months ago, but still managing that bright smile that first caught me off guard in the research facility. "展记者," he says, using my title in broken Chinese, his pronunciation improved since our first meeting. "Ready to see the stars?"

His eyes shine with a childlike excitement that tugs at my heart. Behind that enthusiasm, I detect the faintest shadow—the slight wheeze when he speaks, the way he presses a hand discreetly against his side. He thinks he's hiding it well, but I notice everything about him now.

The mountain isn't high by normal standards, but in Visedri's thin, dusty air, and for someone with his condition, it might as well be Everest. I should refuse, drag him back inside, insist he rest.

Instead, I find myself shouldering the backpack with blankets and water bottles. "Let's go. But at the first sign of trouble, we're turning back." My voice comes out sterner than I intend.

His smile widens. "Deal." He offers his arm like a gentleman escorting a lady, his thin fingers curling slightly—a nervous habit I've come to recognize.

We walk side by side through the silent streets, the evening wind picking up and carrying the distant mechanical groans of the research facility. "You know," he says suddenly, "I've never seen the ocean." He says it so casually, as if discussing the weather rather than a lifelong dream.

I've seen the ocean countless times. I could describe it to him, the sound of waves, the smell of salt, the way sunlight dances on water. But I don't. Instead, I say, "Maybe we can go together someday." The words hang in the dusty air between us, a promise I might not be able to keep.

He stops walking, turning to face me fully. The fading light catches in his eyes, making them appear to glow faintly. For a long moment, he simply looks at me, his expression unreadable. Then he reaches out, his fingers brushing mine hesitantly, as if testing my reaction. "展轩," he says, using my name instead of my title for the first time. "Thank you. For not treating me like I'm already broken."