Holding up half a colored pencil, the child asked breathlessly, "Uncle! Is it still possible to register?"

Chen Hao looked down at his sweaty face, then glanced at the broken red and blue pencil, took it, and twirled it on his finger.

"Better to arrive at the right time than to arrive early." He grinned. "Your pencil even has a built-in wear effect; you're obviously a natural talent."

A few people nearby laughed. Someone muttered quietly, "Can it really work? I can't even draw a perfect circle."

“Whether it’s round or not doesn’t matter.” Susan walked over, holding a stack of old papers. “We’re not going to draw today, we’re going to talk—with pens.”

She handed out the papers, one to each person. The tables were pieced together, the stools were of varying heights, and in the corner lay piles of paint tubes and dried-out markers from the recycling bin. Yesterday's poster still hung on the wall, the tape a little loose, the edges curling up.

Nana stood next to the projector, and the light spot shone on the paper, revealing the blurry outline of a planet.

“The theme is ‘This planet as you see it,’” Susan said. “Not what it looks like, but what you hope it will look like.”

Carl sat near the door, his notebook open, writing something. He wasn't holding a pen; he was just looking at everyone.

Nobody moved.

The air was still for a few seconds, like the wind stuck inside an old air conditioner.

Chen Hao stared at the blank paper, his hand hovering in mid-air. He licked his lips and whispered, "I'm afraid my drawing will scare people."

Nana said softly, "Fear of expression often stems from an excessive concern about evaluation."

"Who are you talking about?" Chen Hao glared at her.

"The database suggests: Draw a line first. Any shape will do."

"What if I draw an X?"

“That means it’s over,” Nana said. “Or it’s starting.”

Chen Hao closed his eyes and casually drew a wavy line. When he opened his eyes, he chuckled to himself: "Hey, isn't this the trajectory of our bumpy journey on the day we landed?"

Someone burst out laughing.

He got a little bolder and added a few more winding mountains, then dotted a bunch of small dots for stars. Finally, he painted a crooked area in blue and called it the ocean.

"There's no sea," someone nearby pointed out.

“Not now,” Chen Hao said, “but I can paint one from a dream.”

He then wrote in red pen at the bottom: "This is my home."

The characters are crooked, as if they've been blown by the wind.

Susan walked over and glanced at it, but didn't say anything; she just nodded slightly.

On the other side, Nana activated the optical projection module. Slowly rotating star trails appeared on the paper, with silver filaments spreading out in concentric circles. She picked up a charcoal pencil and superimposed lines on the light—a mechanical skeleton grew out of the ground, entwined with vine-like plants, stretching all the way to the sky.

Someone asked in a low voice, "What is this?"

“The future,” Nana said.

"Can robots have a future?"

She paused for a moment, then continued painting: "My database records 100,000 sunsets. But today I want to paint 'hope'."

After he finished speaking, the room was silent for a few seconds.

Then someone clapped first, and applause slowly began. It wasn't much, but it was very earnest.

Carl closed his laptop, got up, and walked to the abandoned control panel on the wall. He took a screwdriver from his tool bag, quickly disassembled the casing, flipped it over, and secured it to the stand. The indicator lights on the panel were still flashing, alternating between red and green, like some kind of rhythm.

"For hanging pictures," he said.

Chen Hao was the first to stick the drawing on and secure it with a paperclip. Nana's projected artwork couldn't be printed, so she brought up the holographic border and fixed it above the display stand.

“Next Wednesday afternoon, here again,” Susan said. “Same time.”

Someone asked, "What if you have to work overtime that day?"

“Then come next time,” she said. “We don’t clock in or take attendance.”

A woman in overalls raised her hand: "Can I bring my child? He keeps drawing spaceships on the walls at home."

“Welcome,” Susan said. “If we don’t have enough walls, this is enough.”

Another person asked, "What if you decide you don't want to continue drawing halfway through?"

“Then stop,” Chen Hao said. “Or turn it into graffiti. Paper is free anyway.”

Laughter broke out again.

Li Xiaoyang was squatting in the corner, coloring a blank space with a blue crayon. He looked up at Chen Hao: "Uncle, can you teach me how to draw a moving robot?"

"I'm not very good at it," Chen Hao said, scratching his head. "But I know someone who can actually move."

He pointed at Nana.

Nana tilted her head slightly, and the projection switched to an animation: a small robot walking on gears, followed by a group of shadow children.

The children's eyes lit up.

Susan pulled out several boxes of modeling clay that had been sitting under the table for a while and opened the lids. Some of it was already cracked, but she broke off a piece and kneaded it: "Materials are limited, but ideas are limitless. You can make whatever you want."

Wang Zhihua, from the maintenance team, held up a solder bar and asked, "Can I use this to draw?"

"You have to be able to handle the heat," Chen Hao said.

"I'll give it a try." He sat down, plugged the welding torch into a portable power source, and carefully melted a mark on the sheet of iron. "This will serve as my pen."

The firelight flickered, reflecting off his face.

Liu Wen, the cleaning staff member, remained silent. She took a piece of paper and drew a circle with a black pen, adding a dot in the middle. It looked like a target.

"What's this?" someone asked.

She paused. "The sun. I've always felt it should rise."

No one laughed.

Carl silently noted down the materials that needed to be added: crayons, iron sheets, solder pads, and large clamps.

After he finished writing, he looked up at the display wall. Two paintings hung side by side: one was Chen Hao's interstellar landscape, and the other was Nana's mechanical forest. The lights shone on them, making the colors appear less vibrant but more stable.

As the event was drawing to a close, Susan handed out small notes, asking everyone to write a sentence and paste it next to their artwork.

Chen Hao wrote the same sentence again: "This is my home."

Li Xiaoyang wrote: "I want robots to laugh."

Wang Zhihua wrote: "Even solder joints can bloom."

Liu Wen wrote: "Can I come again tomorrow?"

The last note had no name written on it, only one line: "Turns out I can leave something behind too."

Susan collected the note and gently stuck it back on. She took a step back and looked at the entire wall.

The crooked words, the colorful paintings, the burnt iron sheets, and the projected light and shadow were all crammed together.

Imperfect.

But they are all there.

Chen Hao sat back down on the small stool, an empty water bottle beside him. He looked up at the ceiling, where remnants of the last festival ribbons still clung to it.

"Do you think these people will come every day from now on?" he asked Nana.

"Data shows that the retention rate of those who participate three or more times consecutively increases to 71%," she said.

"I speak in human language, and you respond in machine language," Chen Hao sighed. "I'm exhausted."

“You laughed four times just now,” Nana said. “Your heart rate increased twice. That meets the physiological criteria for ‘satisfaction’.”

"Do you have one?" He turned to look at her.

Nana paused for a second, then slightly adjusted the projector, illuminating a new graffiti in the corner of the wall—a chubby little figure standing on a planet, with the words "Chen Hao" written next to it.

“I turned the light up,” she said. “That’s the answer.”

Carl stood up and put his tools back in his bag. He glanced at his watch; there were still forty minutes until he got off work.

Susan tidied up the paints, sorting out the dried-out brushes. She touched her breast pocket; the list was still there.

Li Xiaoyang hugged the crayon box and refused to leave: "Auntie, can I take another one? I want to go home and draw."

“Take it,” Susan said. “Just bring it next time.”

He almost bumped into the door frame when he ran out.

Only the four of them remained in the room.

The lights dimmed a bit, but the projector was still running. Nana didn't turn it off; she just lowered the power.

Chen Hao stretched, his bones cracking.

"Would you say we've done something worthwhile?" he asked.

No one answered.

He doesn't need answers.

Footsteps came from the corridor outside, approaching and then stopping.

The door was pushed open a crack.

A bespectacled man peeked in, holding a printed sheet of paper: "Excuse me... is this the art creation group?"