The footsteps outside the door grew closer and closer, finally stopping at the doorway.

The door was pushed open a crack, and a man in repair clothes peeked in, said "Excuse me," and walked past with his toolbox. The hallway light flickered briefly before returning to normal.

Chen Hao stood there, watching the half-open door sway twice before closing. He smiled, straightened the painting tube in his hand, and adjusted the rope, which was a little crooked.

“What are we all doing standing here?” he said. “It’s not like this is a play that ends as soon as it’s over.”

No one answered, but the atmosphere relaxed. Susan took the drawing tube and hugged it to her chest, her fingers running over the knot. Carl looked down at the cardboard box in his hand; the one he had just folded had its edges pressed particularly firmly. Nana stood beside the podium, her optical module slightly adjusting its angle, as if she were looking at everyone's face.

“When Susan was speaking just now,” Nana began, “Karl’s heart stopped for 0.8 seconds.”

Karl looked up.

“This kind of reaction is usually seen in databases when there is strong empathy or memory reactivation,” she said. “What did you think of at that moment?”

Carl didn't move, his fingers gripping the corner of the cardboard box. After a few seconds, he said, "The data isn't accurate... I was just listening to it."

Susan glanced at him and said softly, "You said the light from the crack in the wall looked like a smiling face, and I saw it that night too."

Karl's hand paused.

He looked down at the cardboard box, his fingertips slowly tracing the creases. Then he turned the box over, gently flattened it, and unfolded it little by little, as if he were re-enacting a certain action.

“The sandstorm lasted for six hours that day,” he finally said. “Communications were cut off, and all the equipment stopped. Only the emergency lights were on in the control room, and I thought I was going to die.”

He paused, then lowered his voice.

"Later I discovered that as long as I stared at that light, I wouldn't have any wild thoughts. It shone in through the crack and onto the ground, its shape constantly changing. At first it was slanted, then it became triangular, and finally it looked like a smiley face."

Chen Hao neither laughed nor interrupted. He walked to the podium and sat down, his legs dangling, his toes barely off the ground.

“I used to be afraid of the dark,” he said. “I got fat because I always sneaked late-night snacks to calm my nerves.”

Susan turned to look at him.

"I always feel like there's noise outside when I wake up in the middle of the night," Chen Hao shrugged. "I go to the kitchen to find something to eat, then I can't fall back asleep after eating, and the next day I'm still sleepy, so I keep eating. This cycle has been going on for three years."

"And then?" Susan asked.

"Later I found that I was more afraid of loneliness," he said. "Eating bread alone is more uncomfortable than the dark."

The room was quiet for a while.

Susan leaned against the podium, closer to Carl. "That's why I went back to the maintenance area to draw," she said. "The sound there means this place is still alive."

Carl nodded.

“When the welding machine goes off, the whole shed shakes,” she said. “The brushes shake, and the paint splashes out, sometimes onto the canvas, sometimes onto the ground. But now I know how to use it—when the rhythm comes, I just follow it.”

Carl refolded the unfolded paper, this time slowly, folding each fold precisely.

“After that day,” he said, “I started keeping a duty log. Not about how tasks were completed, but about what I saw. For example, one morning at three o’clock, the wind leaking in from the ventilation duct stirred the needle on the dashboard, writing a Morse code that translated to ‘Don’t sleep.’”

"Have you gone back?" Chen Hao asked.

"I wrote 'I don't plan to'."

"Pretty cool."

Nana stood still, and the light from the optical module dimmed slightly, as if it had entered a low-power state.

“I just recorded an audio clip,” she said. “It wasn’t a program instruction; I decided to save it myself.”

"What content?" Chen Hao asked.

“When Susan said ‘the wind wets the painting,’ Carl’s breathing rate changed,” she said. “And when she mentioned the mineral powder reflecting light, Chen Hao bit the candy he was holding.”

"You can even hear this?"

"able."

"So what are you doing now?"

“I’m organizing this data,” she said, “but I’ve found that it doesn’t belong to any known category. It’s neither a task report nor a fault log. I’m thinking… maybe I can create a new folder.”

"What's your name?"

"It hasn't been named yet."

Chen Hao chuckled. "Couldn't you just say you were moved too?"

“I had no emotions,” she said, “but I remember all the parameters of that moment. The sound, the light, the heartbeat, the speed of my speech. I saved them, not because I needed them, but because I didn’t want to lose them.”

The room fell silent again.

Susan looked at Nana and suddenly said, "Have you ever thought that one day you might do something useless?"

"for example?"

"For example, when no one is watching, draw a picture."

"I have no hands."

"You can project it."

"Projection is not creation."

"But would you like to give it a try?"

Nana didn't answer immediately. Her optical module flickered slightly, as if some complex process was running internally.

“I don’t know what ‘want to try’ means,” she said. “But I just automatically accessed an art history database and spent seventeen minutes looking at information about Abstract Expressionism. There was no task requirement or external instruction.”

“That means you’ve thought about it,” Chen Hao said.

"Maybe."

“Then you can do that in the future,” Susan said. “When no one is watching, play some music that no one needs, or save a meaningless scene.”

“Just like what you’re doing now,” Carl said suddenly.

Nana looked at him.

“You just said you saved that audio clip,” Carl said. “But it won’t improve efficiency or help with decision-making. You saved it because you thought it was worth it.”

Nana remained silent for a few seconds.

“I think…” she said, “I also hope that in the future I will still be willing to do something even when no one is watching.”

After saying that, none of the four of them spoke again.

Chen Hao sat on the edge of the podium, clutching a piece of paper left behind by someone else. It had "Suggestions on Cultural Cycles" written on it, and he had crumpled it into a ball. He didn't throw it away; he just held it there.

Susan, holding the painting tube, leaned against Carl. The two spoke quietly about the exhibition.

“We could make ‘light in the cracks’ a theme,” she said.

“We use actual light sources to simulate the movement of sand and dust,” Carl said. “We also add sound feedback so that the light and shadow on the ground change as the audience walks over it.”

“We can add a voice message,” she said. “Using what we said tonight—'It’s okay if the flame is small, as long as we don’t let it go out.'”

Carl nodded.

Nana stood still, the optical module flickering softly. She was archiving the unnamed audio file, the path being: Main System → Non-Task Related → Save.

The filename is empty.

She didn't rush to fill it out.

Chen Hao stuffed the wad of paper into his pocket and looked up at the ceiling light. The light was steady and didn't flicker.

“Actually,” he said, “I’ve always felt that this kind of thing is too abstract. Sharing, expressing yourself, it sounds like a psychology assignment.”

"And now?" Susan asked.

“Now I feel…” He paused, “People aren’t machines, they can’t just stop after tightening the screws. We need something else to support us, otherwise we’ll break down sooner or later.”

"Do you remember when the last breakdown was?" Carl asked.

“Three years ago,” Chen Hao said, “the project failed, my girlfriend broke up with me, and I was diagnosed with high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and high blood sugar during a medical checkup. I locked myself at home for half a month, and did only two things every day: lie down and lie down in regret.”

"Then what?"

“Then I saw the stray cat downstairs give birth to kittens,” he said. “The mother cat had a limp, but she still brought food back every day. Once she was dragging a fish, walking very slowly, but she didn’t stop for a single step.”

"So you came out?"

“I went downstairs to feed it the next day,” he said. “I also bought some groceries and cooked a meal. After eating, I felt like it might still be alive.”

"Is that cat still there?"

"It was taken away long ago."

"fine."

"It's pretty good."

Nana suddenly said, "I've checked the psychological assessment data from the base over the past three years."

"explain."

“Members who participated in non-productive activities experienced an average 21% decrease in their depression index,” she said. “The three most effective ones were: free drawing, impromptu storytelling, and aimless collaboration.”

"See, it still works."

“Not entirely,” she said. “There is a group of people who don’t see significant results.”

"who?"

"A person who never speaks."

She looked at Carl.

Carl looked down at the cardboard box in his hand; it was folded neatly, square, with the edges pressed tightly shut. He placed it on the podium very gently.

“I used to think that no one would understand even if I said it,” he said, “so I might as well not say it.”

"And now?"

"Now I know that someone understands."

He didn't look at anyone, but he spoke to the entire space.

Chen Hao jumped down from the podium and patted his pants.

"That's enough for today. We still have work to do tomorrow, so don't stay here being sentimental until dawn."

Nobody moved.

He didn't leave either.

Susan stood side-by-side with Carl, holding the painting tube. Nana's optical module flickered continuously, as if synchronizing with some unseen process.

Chen Hao took out the wad of paper, unfolded it, glanced at it, and then crumpled it back up.

“Actually,” he added.

He hadn't finished speaking.

Carl gently pushed the cardboard box.

The box slid across the surface of the podium and came to rest in the center.