Carl gently pushed the cardboard box.

The box slid across the surface of the podium and came to a stop in the center. Chen Hao stared at the square crease for two seconds, then suddenly reached out, picked it up, and stuffed it into his pocket.

"Keep this thing," he said. "Who knows, it might become an exhibit someday."

Susan didn't laugh, but her lips twitched. She looked down at the painting tube in her arms, her fingers twirling around the knot in the rope. "How about we actually hold an exhibition? Using what happened tonight as the subject matter."

“Now?” Karl looked up. “There aren’t even any display boards.”

“Nana has a template.” Chen Hao patted his pocket, pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, unfolded it halfway but was too lazy to flatten it completely, “Look, I’ve even thought of a name for it—'The Useless Things We’ve Done'.”

Nana's optical module lit up. "There are thirty-seven small-scale exhibition design schemes in the database, with an average setup time of forty-one minutes. If started immediately, the basic display can be completed within two hours."

“Let’s do it.” Chen Hao handed over the note. “Don’t make it too fancy, just three things: drawings, videos, and that… research records on insects and plants.”

“Area C will be named ‘Light of Exploration’.” Nana took the slip of paper, scanned and entered it. “The following are the suggested zones: the Visual Arts Corner will be led by Susan; the Memory Corridor will use cultural festival video materials; and the Species Research section will use a graphic presentation format.”

“Okay.” Susan loosened the rope on the drawing tube. “I brought a few sketch negatives that can be projected directly.”

Carl stood up and stretched his wrists. "The projector is in my toolbox, and there's a backup power supply."

"Do you still have a roll of double-sided tape hidden there?" Chen Hao asked.

"have."

"That's impressive." Chen Hao grinned. "The maintenance team is the center of the universe."

They fell silent and began to work. Susan opened the drawing tube and took out several negatives wrapped in plastic film; Carl rummaged through the tool cabinet in the corner and retrieved equipment, connecting and adjusting it; Nana stood to one side, the optical module flashing rapidly as she retrieved layout parameters.

Chen Hao squatted down, rummaging through the scattered papers. He picked up a child's drawing; it had a crooked red planet drawn on it, with the words "First Time Flying a Kite" written below. He pointed to the drawing and said, "Put this in front."

"Who drew this?" Susan came over.

“Little Li’s child.” Chen Hao placed the painting on the table. “That day the wind was too strong, the string broke, and the kite flew into the sand dunes. The next day, the child took a shovel and dug it out.”

Susan smiled. "Just leave it here."

The exhibition area gradually took shape. One empty wall was covered with projections, playing a loop of footage from the day of the cultural festival: people dancing, reciting poetry, and others creating a giant smiley face in the sand. On the other side, several display boards were erected, covered with paintings, photographs, and handwritten notes. At the very edge, a small blackboard read "Discovery Records": a certain type of moss can secrete antifreeze substances at minus forty degrees Celsius; the reflective frequency of a beetle's wings synchronized with the base's alarm lights.

There are more people now.

At first, passersby stopped, then some stopped to take a closer look, and later, groups of three or five gathered around a display board to discuss it. An older employee in engineering uniform stood in front of the children's graffiti for a long time, and finally took out a pen and wrote in the blank space next to it: "My daughter drew a similar one yesterday and put it on the dormitory door."

Susan walked up to him and said softly, "This painting is called 'After the Thread'."

The veteran employee nodded. "That's good. I used to think these activities were a waste of time, but now I see... they're not entirely useless."

Chen Hao heard it but didn't reply. He simply straightened the other doodle. It was a night shift duty room, with a sliver of light streaming through the window. On the table sat a half-full glass of water and an open book. He remembered who had drawn it—Old Zhao, the night shift worker, who hadn't taken a day off in three years and had voluntarily applied for a transfer last month to train new employees.

"Whose photo is this?" someone asked.

"I don't know," Chen Hao said. "No one signed it."

“But it’s painted so realistically,” the man said. “Even the cracks in the cup are the same.”

Carl then adjusted the projection angle, projecting the entire video onto the wall. The footage showed a corner of the roof of a repair shed on a stormy night being ripped open, letting in sand and dust. Susan was crouching on the ground, trying to salvage a canvas, mineral powder spilling everywhere. The next scene showed sunlight streaming into the shed, and she holding up a new painting, the paint shimmering strangely in the light.

The onlookers fell silent for a few seconds.

Then someone said, "So she didn't give up that day."

“I thought she was gone,” another person said.

Nana's voice rang out at the right moment: "According to statistics, among the members who participated in cultural activities, the completion rate of collaborative tasks increased by 19%, and the accident rate during night shifts decreased by 12%."

"You even remember this?" someone asked in surprise.

“The data is publicly available and verifiable,” Nana said. “Anonymous results from psychological questionnaires show that more than 70% of participants believe that ‘the base is more like a collective.’”

A young technician in the crowd, who hadn't spoken until now, suddenly said, "I covered someone's shift last week because I read the story you shared last time."

No one responded, but the atmosphere changed.

The previous "it's just a joke" attitude quietly faded away, replaced by a serious scrutiny. Some people started taking photos, some copied down the text on the display boards, and some even asked if they could add excerpts from their diaries to the exhibition.

Standing in the middle of the exhibition area, looking at all of this, Chen Hao suddenly felt a little unreal.

He touched his breast pocket; the crumpled piece of paper was still there. He took it out and glanced at it, but this time he didn't crumple it. Instead, he slowly smoothed out one corner and tucked it inside his clothes.

Susan walked over, holding a newly printed picture. "Should we add this?"

This is a magnified detail of the painting "Light Through the Cracks." The outline of a smiling face can be faintly discerned where light and shadow intersect.

“Add it,” Chen Hao said. “Let’s make the title ‘When it shines in, we know we’re still alive.’”

Susan nodded and turned to stick it on.

Carl then noticed a problem with the projected audio track; the background laughter paused for a moment. He crouched down to check the connection, reconnected it securely, and moved the speaker to a different position to distribute the sound more evenly.

Nana continuously recorded the situation. Her optical module blinked steadily, storing every frame of image, every conversation, and every duration of pause. She created a new folder deep within the system, with the path: Main System → Non-Task Related → Retention → Results Log.

The filename hasn't been decided yet.

But she wasn't in a hurry.

More and more people gathered. Those who had initially been passing by stopped, those who had been standing sat down, and those who had been silent began to talk. A little girl, holding her father's hand, walked to the graffiti area, pointed to the red planet, and said, "I want to draw one too!"

Her father hesitated for a moment, then took a pen out of his pocket and drew a simple rocket on a blank sheet of paper. "You finish it," he said.

Chen Hao smiled when he saw this.

He walked to the center of the exhibition area without taking a microphone or raising his voice. "We're not trying to create a big spectacle," he said. "We just want people to know that some things may seem useless, but they make people want to stay a little longer, take a second look, and say, 'I have a story too.'"

The crowd quieted down.

“On this planet where nobody comes,” he said, “we bear witness to each other that we lived, laughed, and created a little beauty.”

As soon as he finished speaking, applause broke out.

It wasn't just a formality, nor was it perfunctory. It was the kind of applause that welled up from the heart, warm and genuine. Some people clapped until their hands turned red, some shook their heads with smiles, and others quietly wiped the corners of their eyes.

Nana detected that the heart rate synchronization rate had reached its peak. She didn't announce it, but simply continued recording.

Susan and Carl stood side-by-side in the visual arts corner, tidying up the last framed painting. Someone approached and handed them a note that read, "Can my story be displayed too?"

“Of course.” Susan took it. “Just stick it here.”

A note was stuck in the corner, the handwriting messy: "Last winter, I repaired the radio station that hadn't been touched for thirty years and played an old song. Nobody told me they heard it, but I believe someone did."

Chen Hao walked over, glanced at the note, and without saying anything, gently pressed the corner to make it stick more firmly.

The lights remained bright, and the crowd had not yet dispersed. Some people were writing in the comments section, some were repeatedly watching a particular video, and some children were diligently drawing on their desks.

Nana's optical module continued to flicker, archiving the image log. Susan whispered to Carl, "Should we change the angle of this frame?"

Carl was adjusting the stand. "A little to the left," he said, "to avoid the shadow of the overhead light."

Chen Hao stood at the edge of the exhibition area, his hands in his pockets, his gaze sweeping over every face. He didn't speak or move.

Until a child ran over and shoved a crayon into his hand.

"Uncle, why don't you draw one too?"