Chen Hao placed the terminal on the table, tapping his fingers twice on the edge of the podium. The applause had subsided, and the crowd began to move their chairs, gathering in twos and threes. Some people were looking down at their notes, some were looking around trying to find someone they knew to join them, and a few stood still, seemingly unsure of where to go.

He stood up and walked towards the nearest group of people. Four members of the maintenance team were sitting at that table, politely declining to speak first. The air was thick with tension.

"You're stuck?" Chen Hao pulled out a chair and sat down. "I just finished telling you about my dark history, now it's your turn to complain."

One of them smiled wryly: "It's not that I don't want to say it, it's that I'm afraid no one will understand even if I do."

“Then let’s rephrase the question.” Chen Hao leaned back in his chair. “Don’t talk about feelings, that’s too abstract. Just say—what’s the one moment you most want to preserve? Even if it has nothing to do with culture.”

The man thought for a moment: "Last month, during my night shift, I heard someone playing guitar next to the ventilation duct. The sound was very soft, but I could tell it was an old song. I didn't look for who it was, I just sat there and listened for ten minutes. At that time, I thought... this place still has a chance to breathe."

The person next to me chimed in, "I remember when I got my food at the cafeteria, the lady at the window secretly scooped an extra spoonful of food for me. She didn't say anything, just winked at me. I felt especially at ease eating that meal."

“I was looking through old photos in the archives,” another person said softly. “I saw a group of people standing in an open space laughing when the base was first built twenty years ago. Their clothes were tattered, their faces were sunburned, but their eyes were frighteningly bright.”

Chen Hao listened and suddenly laughed: "Have you noticed? These things weren't included in the report, and they're not considered achievements, but they're the reasons why people want to stay."

He stood up, picked up a marker from the wall, and wrote a few words on the whiteboard: voice, eyes, smile.

"Wouldn't it be more worthwhile to save these up than to put on a performance?"

Seeing this, the other groups also started to move. Some people took the initiative to ask questions, while others took notes with paper and pen. The originally loose discussion gradually gathered into several central points.

Nana's voice rang out at this moment: "We detected an increase in keyword repetition rate, with 'daily,' 'minor,' and 'ignored' appearing most frequently. We suggest classifying this as 'informal cultural traces.'"

Susan walked over from the other end, holding a sketchbook in her hand: "I think we can divide it into three parts—what exactly do we want to do? Is it to preserve what these people remember? Or to let more people experience these things? Or simply create new ones ourselves?"

She opened her notebook, which had several columns drawn on it: Record, Create, Pass on.

Carl, who was squatting behind the speakers tidying up the cables, looked up and said, "The problem isn't what we're doing, but how we can make it continuous. Right now, we just come up with an idea for an event on a whim, and by the time we want to do it again, the people have left, and the enthusiasm is gone."

“So we need a rhythm,” Chen Hao continued. “Like a heartbeat, we need to have regular sessions. For example, we can set a theme for each month and let everyone prepare in advance. This month is called ‘Old Objects Month,’ next month is called ‘Crafts Week,’ and whoever has something to say can go on stage and speak for five minutes.”

“It’s not just about talking,” Susan added. “We can also exchange things. I’ll pass around my sketchbook, and everyone can make a stroke, and eventually it will become a collaborative work. Or we can record a sound, like your favorite background sound—whether it’s the bubbling of instant noodles or the beeping of a robot vacuum cleaner turning a corner.”

Nana immediately responded: "There are similar cases in the database. The Mars Outpost launched the 'Sound Mapping Project' to collect environmental audio from all living areas for psychological intervention and treatment. Participants' anxiety levels decreased by 23 percent."

“Look,” Chen Hao pointed at her and said, “the robot doesn’t talk nonsense; it delivers data right away.”

Someone burst out laughing.

But soon, a voice turned cold: "It's all talk, but these things take up time. What about production? We're not here for a cultural performance."

The speaker was a technician in the back row, with his arms crossed over his chest. His tone was not loud, but his meaning was clear.

“Then you’ll take up time sleeping at night too.” Chen Hao didn’t rush to refute. “Why not dismantle the beds so everyone can rest standing up? We can use the saved time to work and double our efficiency.”

The audience was stunned for a moment, then burst into laughter.

The man frowned: "I'm not joking."

"I wasn't entirely joking." Chen Hao's smile faded. "You said it takes up time, so let me ask you, in the past three months, how much has the average performance improved for people who have participated in more than two cultural activities?"

No one answered.

Nana's interface: "According to statistical model calculations, members with higher participation rates have an 18% lower task completion error rate and a 12% higher response time for collaboration requests."

"Moreover," she continued, "during many periods of social transformation in human history, cultural activity has been positively correlated with system stability. For example, in urban community redevelopment projects in the early 21st century, the intervention of art reduced the incidence of resident conflicts by 40 percent."

"You mean..." someone hesitated, "that promoting culture is actually protecting production?"

“To be precise,” Nana said, “it’s about maintaining the sustainable functioning of people.”

After a brief silence, someone whispered, "No wonder I'm always clear-headed when I'm working the next day after an event."

“Exactly.” Chen Hao shrugged. “Tightening screws every day, who can stand it? There has to be an outlet. Otherwise, sooner or later someone will be crying while tightening them and then smashing the wrench against the wall.”

There was another burst of laughter, but this time it carried a sense of shared understanding.

Carl then stood up, walked to the whiteboard, looked at the categories, and circled the middle one with a pen.

“I don’t think the key is to make a big show of it,” he said. “It’s about whether it can be connected. For example, if this month’s theme is ‘memory,’ I’ll have ten long-time employees record a short message about their first day at the base. Next month’s theme is ‘tools,’ so I’ll have everyone bring one of their longest-used items and demonstrate how to repair it, modify it, and why they can’t bear to throw it away.”

"And then?" Susan asked.

“Then we’ll display all these items for a week, with QR codes next to them so people can scan them to hear the stories,” Carl said. “Later on, we can let newcomers choose an old item to inherit and use. If it breaks, they can repair it and pass it on to the next person. Wouldn’t that connect everything?”

“Cultural cycle,” Chen Hao read aloud. “It sounds like a disease, but it’s quite fitting.”

“The key is simplicity.” Susan nodded. “No need for fanfare or approval processes. Whoever is interested can participate, whoever has something to offer can contribute, and whoever has the time can listen.”

Nana simultaneously updates the side screen projection, generating a structure diagram in real time: three major sections are arranged side by side, with several feasible paths extending below.

“A preliminary framework has been established,” she said. “It is recommended to name it the ‘Circular Culture Mechanism,’ with priority pilot areas being the ‘Personal Items Succession Program’ and the ‘Everyday Sounds Archiving Project.’”

“The name is too long,” Chen Hao said. “How about calling it ‘Megaphone’? It’s rustic and straightforward, and you can tell at a glance that it’s used to pass things around.”

“Or a ‘secondhand fair’,” Susan laughed. “Anyway, everyone loves to find bargains.”

“Then let’s use both,” Carl said. “The main name will be ‘Megaphone,’ and the sub-sections will be called ‘Old Things Fair,’ ‘Craft Corner,’ and ‘Night Talk.’”

The discussion has clearly shifted in tone. It's no longer a back-and-forth tentative exchange; instead, some are proactively raising details, others are adding points about implementation difficulties, and still others are discussing where to start with the first phase.

Chen Hao stood in front of the whiteboard, his pen tip hovering in mid-air.

"What's the first thing to do?" he asked.

“Let’s try collecting a batch of items first,” Susan said. “No restrictions on size or purpose, as long as the owner is willing to tell us where they came from.”

“We still need to set rules,” Carl reminded. “We can’t force it, and we can’t just pile things up haphazardly. There needs to be someone to register them, a place to put them, repairs if they break, and investigations if they’re lost.”

“I can take care of the documentation,” Nana said. “Each item will be entered with a unique code, linked to the narrator’s information and audio recording, to support subsequent tracking.”

"Where's the venue?" someone asked.

“There are two empty compartments on the east side of the activity area,” Chen Hao said. “They’ve been used as warehouses for storing miscellaneous items. We just need to clear them out. We’ll put up a sign that says ‘Messenger Collection Point,’ and someone will be on duty there every afternoon from four to six.”

Who's on duty?

“We’ll take turns,” he said. “I’ll be the first to sign up.”

Susan opened her sketchbook and wrote "Telephone Launch Plan" on the first page, followed by a list of tasks. Carl took out his notebook and began sketching the design of a storage cabinet, muttering about the dimensions and load-bearing capacity.

Nana's optical module flickered slightly, and the category summary on the side screen continued to scroll and update.

Chen Hao looked down at the framework he had written and suddenly felt that something was wrong.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Aren’t we moving too fast? It’s only been a few minutes, and we’re already setting up rules and regulations?”

"Otherwise what?" Susan looked up. "If an idea isn't put into practice, it'll be forgotten in a couple of days."

“I’m not against implementation.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid we’ll make things too demanding right from the start. We originally wanted to leave some things to relax, but it’s turned into task targets, attendance tracking, and monthly reports.”

The room fell silent for a moment.

“You’re right.” Carl stopped writing. “We started the last cultural festival the same way, and it ended up becoming a KPI assessment item. Whoever participated in a certain number of activities could get extra points, making it seem like we were earning work points.”

“Then let’s set a hard rule,” Chen Hao said. “The ‘megaphone’ role will not be scored, evaluated, or reported. Whoever does it will do it because they want to, not because they want to be seen.”

“Agreed.” Susan crossed out the words “performance-related” in her notebook.

“I agree.” Carl tore up the half-drawn form. “Let’s keep it simple: handwritten registers, cabinets pieced together from old materials, and fewer lights if there’s not enough electricity.”

After a few seconds of silence, Nana said, "All performance-related algorithm modules have been removed. This project will adopt a non-quantitative tracking method, retaining only the basic archiving function."

“That’s more like it.” Chen Hao grinned. “We’re not building a museum, we’re preserving a breath of life.”

He turned to the whiteboard and wrote three words again:

Don't mess it up.

Then put the pen into the pen holder.

"The theme for the first issue has been decided," he said. "It'll be called 'Things I Can't Bear to Throw Away'."

Just as he finished speaking, there was a rustling sound at the door. A young worker peeked in, carrying an old game console.

"I heard... this place collects old items?" He seemed a little nervous. "This... was left to me by my dad. He used to work at the base. I'd like to tell you about it."