Chen Hao stared at the six silver-white strings on the table, his fingers still tingling from the twirling. He moved his thumb, and the cut skin on his fingertip touched the edge of the wood, causing a sharp pain.

"It's done," he said.

Nana stood to the side without saying a word, but a line of words appeared on her palm: "Fiber strength meets the standard, ready to proceed to the assembly stage."

He didn't read the words. He simply reached out and picked up the instrument. It looked like a half-finished product, a box made of dark wooden planks with metal strings, resembling a piece of scrap metal that could make a sound.

“Just making a sound isn’t enough,” he muttered. “It has to look like something.”

He stood up, dusted off his pants, and walked to the old supply crate in the corner. The crate had been salvaged from the spaceship wreckage and was filled with all sorts of unused items—broken sensors, broken circuit boards, and several tubes of dried-out sealant.

He pulled out three different colored tubing tubes—red, blue, and yellow—all with their labels missing, and he had no idea how long they'd been used. He squeezed them; they were soft.

"Nana, can this stuff be used as paint?"

Nana walked over and scanned it. "Stable composition, non-corrosive, can be used as a temporary coating material."

"Goodness, my artistic career has begun." He grinned, squeezed glue onto a flat stone, scraped it open with a knife, and then found a toothbrush handle to use as a pen.

He squatted by the workbench, gesturing at the front of the guitar for a long time, and finally drew a crooked wavy line.

"What is this?" Nana asked.

“The wind,” he said. “The kind that blows on this planet, the kind that can knock a person over.”

The second stroke was even more shaky, making a sharp turn like an earthworm crawling across.

“Abstract is good, it saves trouble.” He muttered to himself, “Let’s call it Interstellar Graffiti, you know? We can hold exhibitions in the future.”

Nana didn't respond, but silently recorded his movements.

After finishing the first line, he mixed another color—red and yellow—to make orange. This time, he drew a circle, but his hand slipped, and the circle turned into a pear shape.

“Fine, I’ll just treat it as the sun.” He put down the “pen” and took two steps back. “Overall, it has a pretty good feel to it.”

The front of the guitar had several messy lines and color blocks, making it look from a distance like someone had spilled a spice bottle.

“But just painting is too monotonous.” He touched the edge of the instrument. “We need to add something else.”

He turned to Nana and asked, "Do you have any shiny little trinkets over there? Like metal pieces?"

Nana turned and walked into the equipment recycling area, taking out several pieces of reflective alloy from a pile of scrapped parts. They were all heat sinks that had been removed before, thin and light, with neat edges.

“These can be cut into specific shapes,” she said.

“Then you do it, I’ll design it.” He turned the guitar over so the back was facing up. “I want a design, the kind that sounds high-end.”

"for example?"

“Gears and stars,” he said. “Machinery and nature, symbiotic.”

Nana glanced at him, offering no comment on the validity of his statement, and began processing the metal sheet with a miniature cutter. A few minutes later, five round and curved fragments of varying sizes lay on the table, their edges smooth.

Chen Hao fiddled with it for a while and decided to put the largest circle in the middle to represent the main gear, with the four smaller circles around it arranged in an elliptical orbit to symbolize the planets. He used a charcoal pencil to draw the outline of their positions on the back of the piano.

"Don't weld it crooked," he said.

"The error is controlled within 0.3 millimeters," Nana replied.

She activated the micro-welding mode, and the laser point precisely landed at the contact point, fixing the metal sheets one by one. There was no smoke, only a slight hissing sound.

After the last piece was installed, Chen Hao leaned closer to take a look. The reflective surface shimmered slightly as the angle changed, really resembling star trails in the night sky revolving around the wheel.

“You’re something else,” he laughed. “This instrument of ours is both a musical instrument and a monument.”

“The definition is too subjective,” Nana said, “but it is indeed unique.”

"Nonsense, what kind of instrument was made by two people grinding fibers for two days and then gluing together scrap metal?"

As he was speaking, his finger brushed against the edge of a piece of metal.

"Ouch!"

“There is a risk of sharp angles on the surface,” Nana immediately pointed out, “which could cause injury to the operator.”

“That requires grinding,” he said. “But I’m afraid that if I grind it, the drawing will be ruined.”

“I suggest localized treatment.” She took out a piece of fine sandpaper. “I will handle the high-risk areas, and you will be responsible for the low-risk parts.”

Chen Hao took the sandpaper, wrapped it around his index finger, and gently sanded the edges of his painted artwork. He moved slowly, afraid of smudging the paint.

Nana then used a low-power laser to round the corners of the metal sheet. As the beam swept across, the sharp edges became smooth without affecting the overall structure.

Finally, she wiped the piano surface with a cleaning cloth.

Chen Hao picked up his guitar and spun around under the light. The colors of the painted surface appeared even more vibrant under the light, and the metal plates shimmered as he spun, as if they contained breathing starlight.

“Now it’s more than just a gadget,” he said. “It’s the outer shell of ‘our’ voice.”

Nana stood to the side, and the optical lens was slightly adjusted to capture the entire scene.

He looked down at the strings; the six silver threads were taut and reflected a warm light. Then he raised his right hand, his index finger hovering above the strings.

"What do you think we should play for the first note?"

Nana did not answer.

A gentle breeze blew through the vent, stirring up a wisp of dust that drifted a few centimeters under the light before settling back to the ground.

His fingertips fell, gently touching the outermost string.

The string vibrated, emitting a very short hum.

The sound was very faint, almost drowned out by the wind.

But he heard it.