The morning light slanted in through the vents, falling on the vertical green bar on the control panel. Chen Hao blinked, his neck stiff as a brick. He raised one hand to rub the back of his neck, and his other hand reached for the terminal—the temperature curve on the screen was as steady as an old man's electrocardiogram.

"Did you make it through?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

Nana's voice immediately rang out: "Six hours of thermal circulation completed, no system abnormalities. The current temperature inside the kiln is 127 degrees Celsius, the kiln can be opened."

He grinned, revealing slightly yellow teeth, "Our handmade relays are more durable than I am."

"You slept for thirty-seven minutes last night."

"That was me conserving my energy."

He leaned on the platform to stand up, his legs so numb he almost tripped. The kiln door slowly opened, and a wave of heat, carrying the aroma of burnt clay, rushed out. The two men put on heat-resistant gloves and used a sliding rail to push out a row of pottery jars one by one. An infrared scanner swept across the surface of the jars, emitting a soft beep; two slightly cracked ones were picked out, and the rest were neatly stacked in the cooling area.

"Out of 100 items, 98 are qualified," Nana reported. "The finished product rate is 98.6%, a record high."

"Keep the other two as souvenirs," Chen Hao patted one of them on the shoulder. "Bad timing, brother."

They began to sort and stack the containers. Grain containers were placed in the east section, seed containers against the north wall, and tools were arranged in a separate row, with even hammers and drill bits stuffed into specially made wide-mouthed containers. As Chen Hao moved the containers, he muttered, "If anyone ever says I'm lazy again, I'll make them count these hundred containers."

Have you counted them yet?

"I'm in command."

Nana didn't reply, but simply handed him the label printer. He crookedly typed the numbers: Grain-01, Seed-03, Work-07... After finishing the last one, his hand trembled, and he wrote "Work-12" as "Work-Dog Twelve".

"Should we replay it?" he asked.

"Already entered into the database, cannot be modified."

"Then let it go to hell."

Before noon, all the ceramic jars had finished cooling and initial inspection. Chen Hao slumped in his folding chair, his feet propped up on the workbench, a freshly opened bottle of water in his hand. He took a sip, spat some out into his palm, and wiped his face.

“Next step, pack things in,” he said. “Otherwise, what’s the difference between us working so hard to burn a bunch of empty shells and hoarding senile dementia?”

"The supplies are already en route."

"You actually made arrangements?"

"I started the warehouse scheduling program while you were sleeping last night."

He rolled his eyes. "So, when I'm awake I'm just a laborer, and when I'm asleep I'm just a background character?"

The first batch delivered was dried grains. As soon as the sack was opened, golden grains of rice poured into the earthenware jar with a crisp sound, like raindrops. Chen Hao reached out, grabbed a handful, rubbed it, blew off the chaff, and popped a few grains into his mouth.

"Mmm, this year's sweetness."

"Consuming stored grain is prohibited."

"It's just a few! Besides, this is called quality inspection."

"Your saliva has contaminated the sample."

"Then you test it and see if it tastes a bit salty and silly?"

She ignored him. Turning to the knowledge base interface, she swiped through a few lines of data and said, "Wet grains need to be protected from moisture. The existing wooden stoppers are not airtight enough and may mold within seven days."

“Then upgrade the seal.” He clicked his tongue and thought for a moment, “Wrap it with oilcloth, then put on a wax stopper, double insurance.”

"The technology is feasible. The materials can be a combination of waste mechanical grease and linen."

"It sounds like a clandestine recipe."

"Essentially, it physically isolates water vapor."

"You insist on slicing romance into pieces and drying it out." He muttered as he got up. "Let's go find an oil drum."

They rummaged through a corner of the warehouse and found half a bucket of old engine oil and a tattered burlap sack. They cut them into strips, soaked them in oil, and let them dry. Chen Hao hummed a song as he wrapped the oil, his tune more off-key than a potter's wheel. Nana, meanwhile, used a wax torch to coat the cork, her movements as precise as if she were performing surgery.

“If this were auctioned, it could fetch a high price even if it were called an antique.” Chen Hao held up a sealed jar. “‘A unique piece from a desolate planet, handmade by a slacker, with saliva DNA as a bonus.’”

"The label cannot be written like this."

"Then what should we write? 'Cultural heritage created jointly by humans and robots'?"

“Write ‘Grain-05, Packaging time 07:42, Person in charge: Chen Hao (signature)’”

"That's so boring."

At 2 PM, all the earthenware jars were sealed and stored. Sunlight slanted into the storage area, illuminating the hundreds of jars neatly arranged, reflecting the gold of the grains, the brown of the beans, and the gray of the tools, like a silent army. Chen Hao squatted in front of a row of jars, gently tapping each one to listen to the sound and determine its quality.

"Dong, dong, dong..." He tapped faster and faster, "Listen to this sound, it could have been a tribute to the imperial kiln in ancient times."

"You're typing too fast, it's affecting your judgment."

"Art needs passion."

"This is not art."

"It's right here with me."

He stood up, brushed the dust off his trousers, and looked around. Nana was standing in front of the terminal updating data; a message popped up on the screen: [Supply storage period is expected to be extended by 3.1 times].

She read it aloud softly.

He suddenly chuckled, "Don't you think we're becoming more and more like people who just want to live a normal life?"

She didn't answer.

He didn't expect her to answer. His gaze slowly shifted to the distance—on the drying rack, a pile of plant fibers swayed gently in the wind, white with a hint of yellow, supple and slender.

He stared at it for several seconds, then suddenly said, "Next...shouldn't we try something 'softer'? Like..."

He stopped speaking before he could finish. It was as if he was afraid that revealing the truth would make it ineffective, or as if he was startled by his own thought as soon as it surfaced.

Nana followed his gaze, then turned back.

"For example what?"

Instead of saying it directly, he took two steps forward, bent down, picked up a broken fiber, rubbed it, and pulled it.

"You know, if this thing could spin on its own..." he gestured, "twisting it round and round, wouldn't that save a lot of trouble?"

"Theoretically feasible."

"Couldn't you just say, 'That's a great idea'?"

"I said it's theoretically feasible."

He scoffed, "Is that a compliment or a death sentence?"

She looked at him, the plane tilting slightly forward. "You want to do it?"

"Whether you do it or not is one thing, whether you want to do it or not is another." He held the fiber between his fingers and flicked it lightly. It flew out, swirled, and landed on the mouth of a ceramic jar. It didn't fall in or float away; it just hung there, trembling twice.

He stared at the fiber, without moving.

Nana didn't urge her.

A breeze blew in from the vent, causing the labels to flutter slightly. One corner of the "Gong-Dog Twelve" label curled up, as if it were raising its hand to speak.