Chapter 68: Was It Really an Impromptu Performance?

Mo Qi had once again draped herself in a rough linen dress. She lay on the ground, her expression serene, a faint smile playing at her lips.

Behind her, the stage’s screen projected a three-dimensional effect; under the lights, a fluttering green meadow seemed to bloom around Mo Qi, blending her completely into the beauty of the onscreen landscape.

On the screen, a cartoonish man walked over.

Lying on the ground, Mo Qi raised her hand to shield her eyes, frowning slightly as she opened them. Her expression shifted from a trace of annoyance to a joyous, bashful smile that spread across her lips.

The audience watched, unable to help but sigh—these two must be deeply in love.

“Cut!” The stage lights dimmed once again, and the images on the screen shifted rapidly—from gorgeous scenery, to a wedding chamber, then to a hospital room.

A spotlight revealed the woman, still young and beautiful, but now with a swollen belly. She held a basin of water, carefully washing the body of her ailing husband.

On the screen, the man lay quietly in bed, his head wrapped in bloodstained bandages.

At last, the narrator’s voice sounded: “A merciless car accident left her beloved husband a vegetative patient. Perhaps he would awaken tomorrow, or perhaps he never would. The odds leaned heavily toward the latter.”

Though the stage was bare, the audience could almost see Mo Qi truly holding the basin, truly wringing out the towel.

Her voice was gentle and calm, “The doctor suggested I give up on you. How could he be so foolish? You’re still here, why would I ever abandon you?”

A smile remained on her lips, but tears silently slid from her lashes, one after another.

The audience’s hearts ached; everyone hoped for a miracle, that the man might awaken.

Time passed slowly. Day after day, she cared for her husband, belly growing ever larger. After more than two months, he showed no signs of waking, but she gave birth.

It was a boy, utterly adorable. Yet two months of medical bills had already drained all their savings. The hospital began pushing them out.

With no choice, she returned home and sold everything—house and car—to pay for her husband’s care.

They were both orphans, with no relatives to rely on but each other. Seven days after giving birth, she began searching for work. But because she had to care for the child, every interview ended in rejection. With no other way, she bought a few tools and started a small street stall.

She worked to support the family and pay medical bills, all while caring for her child and bedridden husband.

The days passed. The child grew and entered adolescence, rebellious and ashamed of his mother, who now looked old and haggard from her years at the stall.

Mo Qi left the stage to change her makeup. No longer was she the radiant young woman—her face was now etched with the marks of time, her back slightly stooped beneath life’s burdens.

At her modest vendor’s stall, her son, now in high school, walked past with classmates. One teased, “Hey, is that the lady at the stall looking at you? Do you know her?”

He glanced back at her, then quickly looked away. “No idea who she is,” he replied, walking off with his friends.

She stood behind the stall, watching her son’s departing back. She tried to smile, but it was strained. Dejected, she closed her eyes, hiding her pain.

The scene shifted back to the hospital.

Each time she visited her husband’s bedside, she changed into a clean dress, but she could not hide the lines life had carved into her face. She continued to wash her husband.

Even as the years slipped by, her voice remained gentle. This time, though, she did not share amusing stories, but murmured softly to him, “Why haven’t you woken up yet? I’m so very tired, doing this alone.”

Tears welled in her eyes. Turning away, she wiped them with her sleeve, unwilling to let her sorrow trouble her husband.

The scene froze there.

Time passed again. The setting changed: her son was about to take his college entrance exams.

She knew he was ashamed she looked so much older than other mothers, that she wore cheap clothes and embarrassed him. So, she stood far away, watching as he went in to take his exam.

She told him not to worry, though she herself was more anxious than anyone. The days of the exam, she paced restlessly, her nerves obvious to all who passed.

At last, the exams ended. Her son returned home to await his results. The nervous waiting began anew, but this time, with her son at home, she hid her anxiety and soothed him gently.

The results arrived: her son had been admitted to a prestigious medical university at the top of his class.

Seeing the acceptance letter, she was stunned. “Why medical school? Didn’t you always want to see Weiming Lake?”

Her son said nothing, but her eyes filled with tears. In his heart, he had never once forgotten about their family.

The audience could hardly keep from wiping their eyes.

At that moment, Mo Qi glanced at her pocket, pulled out her phone. “Hello?”

Whatever she heard stunned her. After a long pause, she asked in a trembling, choked voice, “Really?”

As those words left her lips, her mouth and the hand holding the phone both trembled. “He’s really awake?”

The screen flashed; after eighteen years in bed, her husband had finally opened his eyes and was being examined by doctors.

And with that, the picture froze.

The narrator intoned, “The husband has finally awakened, and the son, filial though reserved, has been admitted to a top university. Time has not yet run out, and we are not yet old. How fortunate she never gave up!”

As the audience watched the final scene, it was as if sunlight had finally broken through the clouds—a collective relief and joy for her hard-won happiness after years of hardship.

How fortunate she never gave up!

The great screen dimmed, the stage lights came up. Mo Qi, still wearing her middle-aged makeup and clutching her phone, bowed deeply. “Thank you.”

The auditorium was silent, then Shen Yijue, a judge, stood and clapped. Only then did the crowd react, the applause swelling like waves crashing endlessly on the shore.

The story was simple: the steadfast devotion of a woman’s life. But Mo Qi’s performance breathed vivid life into it, capturing both love and familial bonds with striking depth.

Even more powerful was the contrast between the characters over time.

From a beautiful, radiant woman, to a newlywed strong in her resolve, and finally to a middle-aged mother stooped beneath life’s weight—the comparison struck the audience with visceral force.

It was a quiet story, but because of Mo Qi’s performance, it was deeply moving.

Afterward, people could not help but marvel—such an exquisite stage play, was it truly improvised, without rehearsal? It was almost inconceivable.

Wang Min watched the wave of the audience rising to their feet in applause, her face dark as coal.

At last, she understood what Mo Qi had meant with her words before leaving. If this really was improvised, Wang Min would never believe it. That left only one possibility.

Mo Qi had known all along that Wang Min plagiarized the script, but chose to remain silent, lying in wait to turn the tables during the competition. A sense of crisis overwhelmed Wang Min as she glared at Mo Qi, teeth clenched.

The cameraman, watching Wang Min’s expression through the lens, snorted in disdain. Without turning, he remarked to his colleague, “Wang Min always goes out of her way to target Mo Qi—what’s the point?”

“Maybe she thinks Mo Qi is too much of a threat.”

“Still, isn’t this over the top? Did you see the way she looked just now, caught on camera? Grinding her teeth like she wanted to eat Mo Qi alive. Why bother?”

The two staff members shook their heads and resumed recording.

In the audience, Mo Qi’s ten or so fans were the most excited of all. They wiped their tears, holding placards with her name high, pride shining in their eyes.

“Mo Qi.” Shen Yijue gazed at her.