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Lin Ye grew up in a laboratory. His world was made up of data, fiber optics, and cold instruments. To him, the fireworks in the alleyway of his childhood were a blur of excitement separated by a layer of glass. Three years ago, with the obsession of "let everyone have exclusive fireworks", he plunged into the "Stardust" project - using nanotechnology to compress the light, heat and color of fireworks into a particle of dust, so that when it blooms in the air, it will be as warm as real fireworks. That late night, when the blue light of the emergency lights was covered by the warm orange of stardust, and when the light dust like a lost star floated on the ceiling, Lin Ye knew that he had succeeded. But success brought not only breakthroughs in data, but also the fragments of childhood that he hid in the pockets of his lab coat: the colored threads that fell on the ground when his mother knitted a sweater, the sweet smell of candy paintings in the alley, and the festivals that belonged to others that made his ears buzz when the fireworks exploded. He walked out of the laboratory with the stardust, walked into the rainy night, and walked into those forgotten corners. He saw the takeaway boy gnawing on the cold buns under the street lamp. When he looked up and saw the stardust, his eyes suddenly lighted up. He saw the stray cat huddled up in a cardboard box, and the light threads of the stardust wrapped around its paws, and it stopped trembling. He saw the white-collar workers in the office building working overtime until late at night. He saw the stardust through the window, and suddenly remembered what his mother said when he was a child, "Fireworks are the stars dancing in the sky." Lin Ye finally understood that stardust was not a victory of technology, and returned the fireworks that he had hidden to the world. And he himself recovered those memories of warmth that he had forgotten.