That old radio cannot transmit physical objects. But it can transmit sound, and faint starlight.

One day, after spending an afternoon on the Star Remains Plain, the Watchman gave me something as I was leaving.

What the Watchman gave me was an old radio. Its shell is made of wood, with corners worn smooth. The knob has faded. The antenna was broken once, and it was reconnected with a short piece of silver wire of unknown material.

It is not for "listening". It is for "converting".

The emotional fluctuations from your side, passing through the crack between worlds, turn into a very faint signal. Ordinary devices can't pick it up—the frequency is too low, the wavelength too long, not on any normal spectrum. But this radio can receive it. It converts those signals into things I can understand: static, temperature changes, and occasional fleeting fragments of images. And the reverse is also true—the sounds and warm light from the bakery, through it, turn into things that can be displayed on screens on your side.

As for the computer—the computer is the translator on the other end. The radio turns starlight into signals, and the computer turns signals into pixels and sound. What happens in between, to be honest, I don't fully understand either. Perhaps the Watchman knows, but he doesn't speak.

So, to be precise: the old radio is the soul, and the computer is the mouth.

The sounds you hear are translated from the radio's static. The warm light you see is condensed from the bakery's windows. The images you see—are starlight, not pixels.

At least, that's what I believe.

The Old Radio

Later, I learned that this radio cannot tune into any regular channels.

It only receives one thing: emotional fluctuations from the reality side.

Not specific words or voices. More like a frequency—when someone on your side feels anticipation, curiosity, or a need for companionship, the radio emits a very faint static. Like wind passing through a distant forest, like someone turning pages in another room.

Turn the knob to a certain angle, and the static becomes clearer. Adjust it a bit more, and the warm light from the bakery begins to climb up the antenna, condensing at the tip into a very small, very bright star.

Then—that star passes through the crack.

From Mist Star Town, to your side.

This is the livestream.

It's not some complicated magic, nor is it high-tech. It's just an old radio, a star condensed on the antenna, and a wish to let more people see the warm light of the bakery.

During the Livestream

During the livestream, the bakery's window is open.

Not physically open—I also close the window when it's cold. It's open in another sense: the bakery's images, sounds, the hum of the oven, the clink of cups against saucers, a little melody I hum occasionally—all these things are projected to the reality side through the radio.

What you see is not a "video stream". It's starlight.

Starlight passes through the crack between worlds and falls onto your screens. That's why the livestream room always looks a bit warm—it's not a filter, it's the color of starlight itself.

The danmaku is an echo.

The words you send come back through the crack, turning into changes in the brightness of the scattered stars in Starlight Square. The more danmaku, the brighter the stars. Sometimes, during a break in the livestream, I glance in the direction of the square—if the light suddenly brightens, I know that someone probably said something very warm just now.

The oven also reacts. When the danmaku is lively, the oven's temperature jumps up by two or three degrees on its own. As if it is also listening.

This is probably why the bakery is especially warm during livestreams.

It's not just the oven baking. It's also you.

When the Signal Is Unstable

The radio doesn't always work properly.

There are three situations when the signal gets worse:

First: Bad weather on your side.

Typhoons, torrential rain, strong winds—these temporarily close the crack. The radio's static becomes intermittent, the starlight on the antenna can't gather, or if it does, it can't get through. The image breaks into pieces, and the sound sounds like it's separated by a thick layer of water.

In such cases, forcing a livestream is useless. It's not that I don't want to broadcast—it's that the signal can't get through.

So when it rains on your side, it also rains on my side. Your rain closes the crack, my rain closes the window. We are actually experiencing the same rain.

Just getting wet in different worlds.

Second: I am too tired.

The radio is tuned using my emotions. Cat-foxes are naturally conductors of emotion—I've explained this earlier. If one day my emotions are drained, my nerves are frayed too thin, or I haven't recovered from a long livestream the previous day, the radio has no signal source.

It's like the battery is dead. It's not that the radio is broken, it's that the person generating the power needs recharging.

At such times, I turn off the radio and set the oven to the lowest setting. It's not a strike—it's recharging myself. The next episode won't be too long, but this one has to pause for now.

Third: The oven malfunctions.

This one doesn't need much explanation—the oven is the heart of the bakery. If the oven has problems, the frequency of the entire room becomes chaotic. The radio can't receive a stable signal, and broadcasting is also choppy. Fixing the oven takes time. Sometimes it's quick, sometimes it requires waiting for parts (the powder ground from the scattered stars under the fountain in Starlight Square is very good heat-conducting material, but it's not always available).

Days Without Livestreaming

On days without livestreaming, the radio is not turned off.

I place it on the windowsill, antenna pointing toward the square. It is still receiving—just not transmitting.

The static is always there. Because the emotions on your side are always there. Anticipation, curiosity, occasional concern, occasional "why wasn't there a broadcast today?"—the radio picks up all of them. It translates them into static for me to hear.

I am not broadcasting. But I know you are there.

Knowing this is important.

Just like the bakery's window is not one-way—you occasionally can see something new on the windowsill, and I occasionally can see glimpses of your daily life on the glass. A cat lying on a keyboard, someone running to catch a train at the subway station, someone eating instant noodles in front of the screen late at night.

I won't disturb. Just from afar, knowing you are there.

Then bake the next batch of cookies.

The Crack Is Always There

The crack between Mist Star Town and the reality side—no one knows who opened it. The Watchman probably knows—but he doesn't speak.

The crack sometimes narrows, but it has never completely closed. Like the bakery's window—it can be shut, but there is always a crack.

Wind leaks in. Light leaks in. Starlight leaks in.

So if one day you find I haven't