As Chen Hao walked out of the main hall, half of the overhead lights went out. The corridor lights dimmed, casting his shadow crookedly against the wall like a poorly pasted poster.

He didn't go to the rest area, nor did he return to the living quarters. His feet turned on their own, and he climbed the metal stairs step by step. Holding onto the railing, his knuckles brushed against several scratches left from the pipe repairs last winter.

The rooftop door was unlocked. A gust of wind slipped through the cracks, making him squint. He pushed the door open, and a blast of cold air hit his face, but it wasn't as biting anymore. He stopped, took his notebook out of his pocket, and opened it.

The note was still tucked inside. The note, which read "The first meal of spring," had curled edges and the words were somewhat blurred. He didn't look at it for long, closed the notebook, and took a few steps forward.

The observation deck wasn't large, with windproof glass on all sides and a folding chair in the middle that no one had ever sat on. He leaned against the railing, gazing outside.

The drip irrigation system on the distant farm was still running, rows of thin tubes spraying water mist onto the freshly turned soil. Few green shoots had emerged, but there were some. A gust of wind blew, and a thin mist rose from the ground, as if the earth were breathing.

When Nana arrived, he was staring at the clouds.

She didn't come up the stairs; she slid out through the side passage, the conveyor belt making two soft creaks before stopping. She stood beside him, the camera slightly tilted towards the sky.

“The cloud flow rate is 12 percent faster today than yesterday,” she said. “The airflow layer is reorganizing.”

Chen Hao hummed in agreement.

“What does this mean?” he asked.

“It may be getting warmer,” she said. “It may just be a temporary warming. There isn’t enough data to determine the long-term trend.”

He hummed in agreement again.

The two stood quietly. The wind passed between them, carrying a scent of earth and metal. It wasn't foul, nor was it fragrant; it was simply the smell of life.

“I was just thinking,” he said, “whether the things we discussed in the meeting can really last until next year.”

Which one?

“Everything.” He smiled. “Like labeling and categorizing, like writing weekly observation logs. These things seem serious now, but what if nobody remembers them after two months?”

Nana didn't speak. She turned her camera, pulled up a video clip, and projected it into the air in front of him.

The scene starts in black, then a sliver of light appears. A fat man huddles next to a heating pipe, holding an open can of food, his face blue with cold. He takes a bite, his neck shuddering as he swallows. The background sound is the wind and snow pounding against the walls.

The scene jumps to the same person sitting on a picnic mat, grinning, placing the last crumb of biscuit on a rock. A yellow butterfly flies over, lands on it, and flaps its wings.

"Have you changed?" she asked.

“Of course,” he said.

“That’s not being pretentious, it’s evolution,” she said.

Chen Hao paused for a moment, then laughed. He laughed a little too hard, his shoulders shaking. He raised a hand to wipe his eyes, then lowered it again.

"You still remember these?" he asked.

“I remember all the scenes,” she said, “but I only chose this one.”

"Why?"

"Because this is the first time you've left food for someone else when you're already full."

He didn't reply. He looked down at his hands. Plump, short fingers, nails clipped unevenly. These hands had dug through snow, repaired pipes, and broken hardened biscuits. Now they hung quietly at his sides, neither doing anything significant nor idle.

“What if next winter is even colder?” he suddenly said. “What if we don’t make it to someone’s house?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

"Aren't you a database? Can't you figure it out?"

“I can calculate energy consumption, oxygen cycle efficiency, and crop growth cycles,” she said, “but I can’t calculate the ‘hope’ of survival over the next three years.”

He snorted: "I thought you could."

“But I remember one thing you taught me,” she said.

"What?"

"You should eat the flatbread while it's hot," she said. "And you should admire the flowers when they bloom."

Chen Hao suddenly turned to look at her. She stood there, her exterior gleaming faintly, the camera calmly pointing forward. There was no smile, no expression, but she spoke those words with remarkable ease.

He suddenly burst into laughter. He laughed so hard he bent over, leaning on the railing and panting. The laughter bounced off the glass, as if more than one person was laughing.

“You’ve gone astray,” he said. “Before, all you would say was, ‘I suggest eating immediately to maintain your blood sugar levels.’”

“The environment has changed,” she said. “I’m updating myself too.”

He straightened up and took a deep breath. The air was still cool, but it didn't hurt when he inhaled it. He looked up at the sky. A crack had appeared in the clouds, and sunlight streamed down, illuminating a small patch of land on the east side of the farm. The sprouts there were a strikingly green.

“You know what?” he said, “I used to think that living was just about not dying. As long as I could breathe, walk, and eat, that was enough. But now…”

He paused for a moment.

“Now when I see a bird feeding its chicks insects, I stop and watch it a few more times. When I see a butterfly resting on crumbs, I think, ‘Oh, it’s hungry too.’ It’s not instinct; it’s just that I choose to think that way.”

“You’ve started to create meaning,” she said.

“Yes.” He nodded. “Before, others gave me the rules, and I followed them. Now I want to try setting my own rules.”

"What rules?"

“Spring doesn’t come by waiting,” he said. “It comes from living.”

He took out his pen and wrote the sentence on the latest page of his notebook. The handwriting was still crooked, but he wrote slowly, each stroke deliberate and forceful. After finishing, he stuffed the notebook back into his pocket and patted it twice.

"Do you believe the future will be better?" he asked.

“I’m not sure,” she said, “but I believe what you’re doing now makes sense.”

“That’s enough,” he said.

The wind blew again, a little warmer than before. In the distance, the farm's sprayer shifted its focus, emitting a soft hum. A gray bird flew over the rooftops, landed on the edge of the field, pecked a few times, and then flew away.

Chen Hao leaned against the railing, his hands in his pockets. Nana stood beside him, the camera slightly lowered, seemingly in energy-saving mode, but not moving away.

The base's lights shone behind us, some running all night, others shutting off on a set schedule. The control room's screens flashed green, monitoring temperature, humidity, and power load. Everything was normal.

He gazed at the sunlit ground for a while.

Suddenly he said, "I'll go check tomorrow to see if the seeds have sprouted."

Do you need assistance?

“No need,” he said. “I’ll go myself.”

He didn't move. Neither did she.

The light gradually broke through the darkness, not instantaneously, but slowly. The clouds were still moving, but no longer pressing down on the ground. The outlines of the distant mountain ridges became clearer, like someone emerging from a dream, finally seeing their path clearly.

He took one last look at the field.

As I turned around, my foot stepped on a small piece of fallen insulation material, which crushed with a crack.