Chen Hao sat in the control room chair, still clutching the red pen in his hand, the cap bearing several teeth marks. The poster on the wall was slightly crooked; he reached out and pressed it down, but it wasn't completely straight.
The wind picked up again outside, rattling against the window frames. He recalled a remark he'd overheard during his patrol last night: "Saving so much, can you really live to see spring?"
The man spoke in a lazy tone, as if he were telling a joke, but Chen Hao didn't laugh for a long time.
He turned to look at Nana, who was staring at the screen, the optical lens flickering slightly. "Just setting rules isn't enough," he said. "People aren't machines; they won't suddenly become proactive just because of a rule."
Nana paused for a moment. "Historical data shows that group rituals can increase psychological resilience by 37 percentage points."
“Then let’s organize an event.” Chen Hao grinned. “We won’t call it a meeting or a study session, let’s just call it… ‘Night of Hope’.”
“The name has been recorded.” Nana brought up the schedule interface. “I suggest setting the time at 7 p.m. tonight, and not exceeding two hours, to avoid affecting the night shift.”
"Okay." Chen Hao stood up and stretched. "I'll go and inform everyone."
“No mandatory participation is required,” Nana added. “The principle of voluntariness is more likely to stimulate intrinsic motivation.”
“I know.” He picked up the kettle on the table and shook it. “I’ll bring a kettle of hot water and knock on each door. If they won’t come to me, I’ll scare them.”
He walked to the door of the first dormitory room and knocked twice. No one answered. He knocked louder, and the door opened a crack, revealing a sleepy-eyed face.
"What?" the man muttered.
"There's a show in the control room tonight." Chen Hao handed over the water bottle. "Singing and storytelling, come and go as you please. If you don't come—" He deliberately lowered his voice, "you'll be a coal thief on the poster tomorrow, drawn even uglier than me."
The other person rolled their eyes and said, "Your drawing was ugly to begin with."
“Then it’s even more likely,” Chen Hao laughed. “Help me raise my aesthetic standards.”
The second room, the third room... Some people shook their heads, some said they were too cold to move, but others laughed after listening and said, "Then don't sing off-key," and casually put on a thick coat.
When Nana returned to the control room, everything was already set up. String lights for emergency use were mounted on a shelf, powered by spare batteries; the light was yellowish but still working.
“The audio equipment is ready,” she said. “The playlist includes five pieces of old-world light music, one children’s choir piece, and the rest are up to you to improvise.”
"Don't record my data when I'm performing well," Chen Hao waved his hand. "Don't save awkward moments."
At seven o'clock sharp, people began to arrive one after another. There weren't many, only seven or eight, all wrapped in thick clothes and huddled in chairs. No one spoke; the room was so quiet that you could hear the faint hum of the light bulbs.
Chen Hao cleared his throat. "Ahem, everyone, thank you for coming. I know things aren't easy these days; it's cold, the work is heavy, and the food is bland. But I'm not here to preach today."
He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. "I want to say something."
Some people below looked up.
“Yesterday I wrote a note and hid it behind the poster,” he read. “Don’t let the future hate us now.”
The room was silent for a few seconds.
“I used to think that living was just about taking it one day at a time.” Chen Hao looked down at the paper. “If I was hungry, I’d find something to eat; if I was cold, I’d burn something to cook. Who cared about tomorrow? But I don’t think that way anymore.”
He looked up. “Every piece of coal and every battery we save isn’t for our own survival, but to give future generations a chance. What if new people come one day? They shouldn’t be greeted by an empty warehouse when they open the door.”
Nobody moved.
“I’m not a hero.” He smiled. “I’m also afraid of the cold, and I also want to slack off. But I’m standing here now because I feel that someone has to do this. It doesn’t have to be done perfectly, but it has to start.”
He put down the paper and grabbed an old guitar from the side. "I definitely can't sing this song well. But the lyrics are true."
He strummed a string, and it went out of tune. He laughed at himself first. "See, even the guitar is rejecting me."
Some people laughed along.
He readjusted the keys and started singing. His voice was hoarse, his rhythm was unsteady, and he even forgot the lyrics halfway through. But he didn't stop.
When the song ended, no one applauded or laughed in the room.
After a while, a woman in the corner spoke up: "Let me tell you something."
Everyone was looking at her.
“When I was little, my family was too poor to afford fireworks for Chinese New Year,” she said. “My dad rolled up a piece of sheet metal, filled it with gunpowder, and tied it to a bamboo pole. When it was lit, ‘bang!’ It was so bright, just for a second. My sister said it looked like stars had fallen from the sky.”
She looked down and rubbed her hands together. "I still remember that light."
Another person chimed in: "There used to be an old man in our neighborhood who planted a whole yard of roses. In the summer, the walls would be covered in red and pink blooms. The property management wanted to cut them down, but he squatted down next to the flowers and wouldn't let them, saying, 'If you cut them down, this building will lose its soul.'"
He chuckled. "The flowers were cut down anyway. He moved away the next day."
A young man said, "On the day of my college entrance exam, my mom cooked me a bowl of noodles. I said I didn't want to eat it because I was too nervous. She said, 'Then you can smell it.' So I smelled it, and it smelled so good that I wanted to cry."
After he finished speaking, he looked down and picked at his fingers.
The light from the string lights shone on everyone's faces, flickering on and off.
Nana gently pressed the play button. A chorus began to play, the voices clear and pure, like a snowy morning.
No one spoke, no one moved. Some had their eyes closed, some were staring at the light.
When the song ended, no one suggested leaving.
Chen Hao sat back down in his chair, folded the paper, and put it in his pocket. He saw Nana's optical lens turn towards the poster on the wall and pause for a few seconds.
"When is the next event?" someone asked.
"When everyone wants to come again," Chen Hao said.
"Then it won't be long," the man said. "Next time you sing, I'll bring my harmonica."
Some people laughed again.
When most of the people had left, Chen Hao and Nana returned to the control room. The duty roster was still running, and the temperature monitor showed that it was -18 degrees Celsius outside and the wind speed was six meters per second.
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes a little sore. Nana stood in front of the control panel, scanning the status of each area.
"How are the data today?" he asked.
"The mood fluctuation curve is rising steadily," she said. "The collective sense of belonging index has reached its highest value since the beginning of winter."
"It sounds like I'm praising myself."
"It's true."
He yawned, put his hand in his pocket, and felt for the folded piece of paper. He didn't take it out, but just clenched it tightly.
The wind was still blowing outside, and frost had formed on the glass. The lights in the control room were on, casting two shadowy figures.
Nana's camera slowly panned across the wall, finally settling on the crooked poster. It read: "Save a little today, so you can have fire tomorrow!"
Her system automatically recorded today's events.
Completed simultaneously.
A soft beep sounded.
Chen Hao's breathing gradually became heavier, and a corner of the paper in his hand peeked out of his pocket, the edge already wrinkled.
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