The child rushed up to Chen Hao, holding the crooked little robot, and shoved it into Chen Hao's hand. The wire-bound hand hooked around his fingers, and the head was a round ball with protruding joints that looked like it might fall apart at any moment.

The people around were still applauding. The lights slowly dimmed, and the actors on stage gradually left. The crowd began to disperse in twos and threes; some took photos, some chatted quietly, and laughter lingered intermittently in the air.

Chen Hao looked down at the small object in his hand, saying nothing. He rubbed the spherical head with his thumb; the surface was rough, as if it had been casually sculpted. Then he smiled.

“That’s just me,” he said. “Fat and not very smart.”

Susan heard this and laughed. She stood a few steps away, still twirling the pen made from scrap materials in her hand. Nana stood in front of the control panel; the data on the screen had stopped scrolling, and the system had entered standby mode. Carl squatted on the ground, closing the last equipment box with a click.

"Don't rush off," Chen Hao suddenly patted the empty space beside him. His voice wasn't loud, but just loud enough for everyone to hear. "The lights are still on, and the story isn't over yet."

He plopped down on the ground, leaning against an untouched backdrop. It featured a drama troupe poster with a blurry figure standing under a starry sky, looking up at the heavens.

Susan glanced at him, then sat down, hugging her knees. Nana quietly walked over and stood half a step behind him. Carl hesitated for a moment, then got up and walked over, sitting down next to Chen Hao, not too close, not too far.

“That kid just now…” Chen Hao waved the robot in his hand, “Does he know what I do at the base? Repairing equipment, moving boxes, and occasionally getting scolded. In the end, he made a robot and said it was ‘me’.”

“But he did a pretty good job,” Susan said. “Round head, fat body, slightly disjointed joints—quite lifelike.”

"Are you praising me or insulting me?" Chen Hao grinned.

"truth."

Nana spoke softly: "According to facial recognition records, this child participated in the craft class three times in a row, and the theme of the works was 'People who have helped me' each time. This creation took forty-seven minutes and used recycled metal wire and an insulating shell. The structural stability is 32 percent lower than the standard value."

"In other words, it was a lot of work to make," Chen Hao nodded. "They even specifically chose someone who looked least like a robot to represent me."

He gently placed the robot on the ground, directly in front of him. The light shone from the side, casting a short, thick shadow on it.

"Is there anything you remember particularly from today?" he asked.

Susan looked up: "I saw a painting on the wall in the food court, and nobody knows who painted it. It's a kitchen, with a group of people around a pot, like they're cooking something. The signature is just two words: 'We'."

She paused, then said, "That person had never taken a painting class and usually just did odd jobs in the back office. But he managed to draw it."

“Art is something that no one can control,” Chen Hao said. “You can say what you want and paint what you want. It’s not an exam where you have to get a grade.”

Carl glanced at the stage: "For the dance troupe's last move, everyone was lying on the ground, and the lights went out one by one. It wasn't like that during rehearsal. They changed it."

"It was changed at the last minute." Chen Hao nodded. "If you fall, you just roll around and keep dancing. If you fall out of the group, you dance solo. Nobody yells to stop, and nobody panics."

“Perfect than planned,” Carl said. “The rhythm was off twice, but the emotions were more genuine.”

Nana added, "The time when the audience's heart rate synchronization rate reaches its peak is exactly eighteen seconds after the start of the improvisation segment. Data shows that uncertainty actually enhances the intensity of empathy."

"So," Chen Hao leaned against the backdrop, looking up at the sky, "we've been putting on this show all day not for the sake of neatness or aesthetics. It's to let everyone know that even here, in this base no one has ever heard of, we can still create something interesting."

He paused, his voice lowering slightly: "Yesterday I got a complaint about a faulty sound system. The solder was burning hot, and sweat was running into my eyes, but nobody paid any attention to me. But while watching the performance just now, I didn't think about any of that."

“I saw Susan squatting down to tie the child’s shoelaces.” He pointed at her. “You didn’t say a word, but the child jumped very steadily afterwards.”

Susan didn't move, but just looked down at the pen in her hand.

“Karl,” Chen Hao turned his head again, “when you turned off the power, you checked each one one by one, as slowly as if you were worshipping an ancestor. But I know you were afraid that it wouldn’t work tomorrow.”

Karl didn't look up, but the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

“Nana.” Chen Hao looked at her. “You wrote down the 92.6% satisfaction rate. Numbers are cold and impersonal, but you wrote them down. This isn’t a task, is it? You really care.”

Nana's eye indicator light flickered slightly, but the color remained the same, still a warm yellow.

“We’re holding this festival not to prove who’s better,” Chen Hao said. “It’s to remind ourselves that we’re still alive and can still do something together. Even if no one watches, we’ll still put on a lively show.”

The square was quiet for a while.

The wind blew by, picking up a broken ribbon, making it circle halfway around, and then letting it fall again.

Nana suddenly raised her hand, her fingertips lightly touching the edge of the control panel. The next second, an audio recording slowly began to play.

It's a mashup.

The drama crew's first line: "Is anyone still alive on this planet?"

Next came the sound effect triggered by the light spots on the dancers' wrists slicing through the air, a crisp arc.

Then comes the first ringtone of the music group "Echoes of the Wasteland," like the wind passing through abandoned pipes.

The three sounds intertwined, but not for long, less than a minute.

No one spoke.

Applause slowly rose.

It wasn't the kind of enthusiastic, explosive applause, but rather a gentle, steady clapping. For the whole day, for these sounds, for these people.

Chen Hao didn't move. He looked at the small robot on the ground, the light shining on it, and the metal wires reflected a faint light.

“It doesn’t move,” he said. “It doesn’t talk either, and its brain is probably no bigger than a peanut. But it’s the most like me I’ve ever received as a gift.”

He reached out and gently pushed the robot forward, placing it on a flat rock. It was right in the middle of the four people sitting around.

“Put it here,” he said. “Consider it…a memorial for today.”

Susan looked down at her hand, the scrap pen still twirling between her fingers. She didn't say anything more, but simply pointed the pen upwards and gently inserted it into the crack in the ground.

Carl rested his hands on his knees, staring at the stage. The lights were already dimmed, with only a few ring lights still on, illuminating a warm area.

Nana stood still, the device tilted slightly, entering a low-power state. Her data recording was complete, and the system notification sound flashed silently.

Chen Hao leaned against the backdrop, closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again.

People were still taking pictures in the distance, their laughter coming from all directions. A staff member walked by, glanced in their direction, and quietly walked around them without disturbing them.

“Actually,” Chen Hao suddenly spoke up, “I used to think these kinds of events were just formalities. Leaders wanted to achieve political achievements, the masses just wanted to join in the fun, and then everyone dispersed.”

He smiled and said, "But now I think it's okay to just go through the motions. As long as someone takes it seriously, it will eventually become real."

No one responded.

The night breeze blew again, and the ribbons swayed gently.

Nana's indicator light was still on, a warm yellow, and stable.

Susan looked at the pen stuck in the ground, and the pen trembled slightly.

Carl slowly exhaled, his shoulders relaxing.

Chen Hao looked down at his palm; there was a shallow mark left from holding the control panel for too long. He rubbed it and ignored it.

He looked up at the remaining light above him.

"I don't know what I'll do tomorrow," he said. "Anyway, today was worth it."

He reached out, picked up the last half-finished bottle of water beside him, unscrewed the cap, and poured it onto the rock.

"Here's a sip," he said to the little robot. "Thank you for your hard work."

The water seeped into the ground and disappeared.

He sat up straight and didn't say anything more.

Some of the square's lights were still on, and most of the crowd had left, but no one was in a hurry to leave.

Footsteps sounded in the distance, and several children ran past, carrying glowing toys, laughing as they rushed towards the dormitory area.

The wind stopped.

The ribbons hung down.

Nana's data terminal vibrated slightly, automatically saving the last segment of the ambient recording.

Susan reached out, pulled the pen from the ground, and gently placed it next to the robot.

Carl stood up, stretched his shoulders, and then sat back down.

Chen Hao yawned.

He rubbed his face and looked at the quiet square in front of him.

Under the light, the handmade robot stood quietly on the stone, its metal hand catching the light as if waving.