Chen Hao pressed the last piece of circuit board into the wing of the model, then released his grip, and the entire spaceship fell apart. The wooden table was piled high with broken scraps, and the mineral paint had dried and hardened, like a layer of ash.

The workshop had only been open for half a day, and half the staff had already left.

Several children squatted by the table, staring blankly at their half-finished creations. One boy reached out and touched his "spaceship," which shattered in two with the slightest touch. He glanced up at Chen Hao, said nothing, silently swept the fragments into a cardboard box, picked up his coat, and left.

Chen Hao stood there, his hand still hanging in mid-air. He looked down at his work, then at the mess scattered across the table, and finally smiled.

"It seems our spaceship hasn't even learned how to take off yet, but has already learned how to disintegrate."

No one responded.

Susan sat in the corner flipping through her notebook, her pen drawing a long line on the paper. She had just counted: twelve people had signed up, and seven had dropped out halfway through, leaving comments that were blunt: "Too difficult to do," "Can't keep people engaged," "A waste of time."

Carl squatted by the wall, inspecting the wheels of the wheeled vehicle. There wasn't much to check, really. The wheels were fine, and the display stand was set up, but before the exhibition could even start, they had already received a message from section B.

Nana stood in front of the information screen, and the optical module flashed.

"The B-zone life team has replied and confirmed. The message reads: Thank you for the notification. The current task has a high priority, and we will not participate in non-essential activities at this time."

Chen Hao turned his head. "Did they see the photos of the drifting box?"

"The attachment was not opened." Carl pulled up the communication log. "Not even a link was clicked."

The air suddenly became stuffy.

Chen Hao sat down against the table, casually picking up a piece of broken board and running his fingertip along the edge. He had chosen the material himself—a thin sheet made from a mixture of local plant fibers and mineral slag; it was light, cheap, and plentiful. But it was brittle; it would crack with the slightest bend, and even after being glued back together three times, it wouldn't last more than ten minutes.

He initially thought this junk was perfect for tinkering with. He wouldn't mind failures, since it was all cobbled together from scrap. But now it seems people aren't afraid of failure, they're just too lazy to bother.

“Did we make a mistake?” Susan closed her notebook. “We thought that if we gave people a box, some paper and pens, they would come and write stories. But most people just want to leave work on time and don’t want to spend another half hour recalling old stories.”

Chen Hao didn't answer. He stared at the sign on the bulletin board. The plastic board that read "Project Star Mark" was still swaying, the knife-carved words were crooked and trembled with every gust of wind.

He recalled patting the podium yesterday and saying "Let's begin," but today, as soon as he started, his shoe fell off.

"How about we take a break for a while?" Susan's voice lowered. "We'll talk about it again once we've gathered all the materials."

“If it stops, it’s over.” Chen Hao shook his head. “One failure can be attributed to bad luck, but if no one comes twice, then nobody really wants to play.”

He stood up and walked over to Nana. "Do you have any other ideas, Curry? Like... how to prevent this broken board from snapping at the slightest touch?"

Nana nodded, and the screen immediately displayed a row of entries. "Database search complete. There are seventeen applicable solutions for low-strength composite material bonding technology. Three of them are based on local mineral components and can be easily processed."

Chen Hao leaned closer to look, "Which one is the easiest?"

"The second method uses distilled resin liquid as a binder, which reduces drying time by 40% and improves bending resistance."

"That sounds plausible." He stroked his chin. "The problem is, where's the resin?"

"The maintenance team has reserves in their warehouse. They are intended for pipe sealing, and the stock is sufficient."

“Then let’s borrow some.” Chen Hao turned to Karl. “You’re familiar with them, can you get some?”

Carl frowned. "Sure. But people will ask what I'll use it for. If I say I'll make crafts, they'll probably think I'm crazy."

"Just say it's for experimentation," Chen Hao laughed. "Anyway, it's not exactly lying; we are indeed testing it."

Susan stood up. "Even with glue, the process needs to be changed. The current method relies entirely on hard clips, which is structurally flawed. The children don't understand mechanics; they can't build anything just by being enthusiastic."

“Then teach me,” Chen Hao said. “Next time, start by explaining for five minutes how to set up the framework. It doesn’t need to be perfect, just make sure it doesn’t fall apart as soon as you pick it up.”

“But they might not come back,” she said.

"Fine, don't come if you don't want to." Chen Hao sat back down at the table. "Whoever wants to try, come on. We're not looking for a big show, we just want someone to keep going."

He paused, looking at the pile of defective products. "Look at these fragments, which one didn't go from being whole back to being scattered? But as long as someone is willing to pick them up and put them back together, it's not over yet."

Susan didn't say anything more. She lowered her head, opened the scrap paper, and drew a simple connection diagram on it.

Carl got up and walked to the tool rack, pulling out a roll of thin wire. "Let's try adding a frame. It's light, won't affect the overall weight, and can still secure key nodes."

Nana updated the database records and marked "Local Material Optimization Scheme" as a high-priority item to be tested.

Chen Hao picked up a piece of broken board and gestured on the table. "If we can't even do this, it'll be a real joke. But we didn't expect it to be easy from the start. It would be strange if it went smoothly from the beginning."

“After all,” he chuckled, “we’re not exactly an elite team. One’s a mediocre student, one’s a robot engineer, one’s an artist, and one’s a repairman. Putting us together to work on culture sounds like a hastily assembled circuit board; before you even turn it on, everyone’s afraid it’ll explode.”

Susan looked up at him.

"It doesn't matter if it explodes," he said. "We'll know which wire is connected wrong after it explodes once. We can just reconnect it."

Footsteps sounded outside; it was a few workers returning from their shift passing by the exhibition area. They glanced inside, some stopped, looked at the notice board, and then walked on.

No one came in.

Chen Hao stared at the empty doorway, but didn't move.

"The workshop will be open as usual tomorrow," he said. "The time and location will remain the same. We'll change the materials and the methods. If we fail, we'll keep revising until someone can make a piece that we can actually hold up."

“As for Area B,” he looked at Nana, “stop sending those formal notices. Just write a new message saying: We have a craft class here, and the results are a mess, glue all over our hands, and the boards keep cracking. Do you want to come and mess around with it too? Attach a photo, just this picture of the broken spaceship.”

Nana blinked. "Should I adjust the tone to a more neutral expression?"

"No need," Chen Hao waved his hand. "I want this dejected feeling. Let them know that we're not here to show off our achievements, but to make mistakes together."

Susan scribbled something on a piece of paper, tore it off, and handed it to Nana. "Add this too: If you have anything similar going on, even if it's just someone fixing a pipe and doesn't want to talk about it, you can tell us. We'll make a note of it for you."

Carl cut the wire into small pieces and inserted them into the model's joints. "I'll go to the warehouse tomorrow to get the resin. I'll also ask the maintenance team if anyone would like to bring their tools as exhibits."

“Okay.” Chen Hao nodded. “Just say the exhibition theme is ‘Heroes of the Broken.’ Anyone who has scrap but useful items should take charge of this.”

He stood up, collected the shattered spaceship parts into the box, and closed the lid.

"If it doesn't work the first time, consider it tuition."

Susan looked at him. "What if it doesn't work the second time either?"

“Then let’s do it a third time,” he said. “There will always be someone who wants to try. Even if it’s just one.”

After updating the message template, Nana looked up and said, "New contact letter has been generated, awaiting confirmation."

Chen Hao reached out and pressed the send button.

“Let’s go,” he said. “That’s enough for today. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

No one answered, but no one left either.

Susan was still revising her structural diagrams, Carl was squatting down reinforcing the trolley's interface, and Nana's screen was scrolling with new material parameters. Chen Hao stood by the table, holding a broken piece of craft board in his hand, his knuckles slightly white.

He suddenly spoke up, "Do you think it's possible that nobody actually wants to leave a trace? We thought everyone needed to be remembered, but maybe... they just wanted to live quietly?"

No one answered.

A gust of wind blew in from the vent, causing the notice board to sway slightly, and the plastic panel bearing the "Star Mark Project" made a soft clicking sound.