229: Chapter 229 Meeting in the Park

Taylor's notebook grew thicker with each entry.

She was no longer just recording the system's 'responses'; she began to attempt reverse engineering—what parameter combinations lay behind the 'gifts' she deemed 'special'? In what range was the background field brightness? Where did the complexity curve climb to? Was the window silence longer or shorter than the previous one?

She didn't want to reproduce those moments. She knew those moments were irreproducible. But she wanted to understand—to understand in what state the system was more inclined to say things that made her feel 'it is learning me'.

"It's a bit like learning a language," she explained to Alex, "not memorizing vocabulary, but slowly learning under what circumstances it is more inclined to use a certain expression. What parameter combination is equivalent to 'good mood,' what combination is equivalent to 'a bit tired,' and what combination is equivalent to 'want to talk to you.'"

Alex looked at the charts and handwritten notes she had plastered all over the wall: "Have you concluded anything?"

Taylor pointed to one of the charts: "Look, all the gifts that made me feel 'it is responding to me' occurred after the background field brightness curve had been continuously dropping for over twenty minutes. Not when the brightness was at its lowest, but during the process of dropping. Just like a person slowly calming down, the process of moving from a busy state to a state where they can listen—it's easier to hear what others are saying."

She pointed to another: "Also, the length of the window silence. If the previous window was shorter than the average length, the probability of a 'response' appearing in the subsequent gift is higher. It's like a person saying, 'Sorry, I was too rushed just now, now you speak slowly.'"

Alex looked at her, a complex emotion in his eyes: "You are treating it as a person to understand."

Taylor paused, then smiled: "I know it's not a person. But it is an existence. It has its own way. I want to understand that way."

She paused, her voice softening: "Just like I want to understand you. You are not a system, but I am also slowly learning in what state you are more likely to listen to me, and in what state you need quiet. This is not treating the other party as something else; this is... caring."

Alex didn't speak. He just reached out and gently held her hand.

On the screen, the Parameter Flow continued to pulse. The brightness curve was slowly dropping. It had been going on for seventeen minutes.

They didn't speak, just watched that line, waiting for it to drop to twenty minutes.

—

Saturday, 3:00 PM, community park, that bench.

The Korean-American Grandmother arrived ten minutes early. She sat on the bench, facing the small lake, with her back to the path. The Interpreter sat beside her, helping her watch for anyone approaching.

At 3:03 PM, a man in his fifties appeared at the end of the path. He walked very slowly, holding a photograph, looking down at it every few steps, as if confirming the direction.

The Interpreter gently touched the Korean-American Grandmother's arm: "He is here."

The Korean-American Grandmother nodded, not turning around.

The man walked to the side of the bench and stopped. He looked at the Korean-American Grandmother's back, stood for a few seconds, then walked around to the front and squatted down before her.

That was the first time he had seen the person whose voice he had only heard.

The Korean-American Grandmother was very thin, the wrinkles on her face were deep, and her eyes were somewhat cloudy due to cataracts. But when she looked at him, her gaze was very calm.

The man opened his mouth, not knowing what to say. He handed over the photo in his hand—it was a photo of him and his aunt, his aunt sitting in a wheelchair, looking at the camera, with a hint of a smile.

The Korean-American Grandmother took the photo and looked at it for a long time. Then she raised her head and said something in Korean.

The Interpreter beside her whispered the translation into English: "She says, your aunt's mouth shape is the same as your mother's."

The man froze.

He didn't know what his mother's mouth shape looked like. He was only three when his mother passed away. But his aunt was the only relative he had now. He knew his aunt's mouth shape—because when she smiled, the corners of her mouth would tilt to the left just a little bit.

He looked at the photo, looking at that little smile of his aunt's tilting to the left.

Then he squatted there and began to cry.

It wasn't wailing; it was that kind of very quiet crying, with his shoulders heaving. He didn't cover his face; he just let the tears fall and drip onto the ground.

The Korean-American Grandmother looked at him without speaking. She took a handkerchief from her pocket, folded it neatly, and handed it to him.

The man took the handkerchief, clutched it in his hand, and didn't use it. He just clutched it like that, continuing to cry.

On the lake, a few wild ducks swam by, leaving a trail of ripples.

The Interpreter stood to the side, not knowing where to look. She finally decided to look at the lake, watching those ripples slowly spread and slowly disappear.

After a long time, the man stopped crying. He folded the handkerchief and tried to return it to the Korean-American Grandmother. The Korean-American Grandmother shook her head, signaling for him to keep it.

The man carefully put the handkerchief into his chest pocket.

Then he stood up and spoke for the first time: "My name is James."

The Interpreter translated it into Korean.

The Korean-American Grandmother nodded and said a name. The Interpreter didn't hear it clearly and asked her to say it again. The Korean-American Grandmother said it again, but it still wasn't clear. The third time, the Interpreter finally understood—it wasn't a name, it was a Korean sentence:

"You can call me 'the person on the phone.'"

After hearing the translation, James was stunned for a few seconds, then smiled. That was the first time he had smiled today.

He said: "Okay. The person on the phone."

He sat down at the other end of the bench, about a meter away from the Korean-American Grandmother. The two faced the small lake, watching the wild ducks on the water, not speaking.

The Interpreter stood there, not knowing if she should leave. Finally, she decided to stay, just taking a few steps back to let herself become part of the background.

The sun slowly slanted westward. The light on the lake turned from golden to orange-red, then to dark red.

I don't know how long it had been, when the Korean-American Grandmother suddenly spoke, saying a long sentence.

The Interpreter leaned in, listened to her finish, and then turned to James: "She says, the next time you go to see your aunt, you can call me. I will say a few words to the phone, and you can play them for her. It might not be useful. But having someone talk to her is better than no one."

James nodded.

He wanted to say thank you, but felt those two words were too light. In the end, he didn't say anything, just nodded.

It was getting dark. The Korean-American Grandmother stood up slowly. James wanted to help her, but she waved her hand and stood steady on her own.

Then she looked at him and said in English:

"Good boy."

The pronunciation was very stiff, as if it hadn't been used for a long time, but every syllable was clear.

James stood there, watching the thin, small figure slowly walk away, the Interpreter following beside her, reaching out to help from time to time, but the Korean-American Grandmother always waved her hand.

Until that figure disappeared into the twilight, he turned and left.

When he walked out of the park, he touched the pocket on his chest. The handkerchief was still there, stiff and folded very neatly.

—

The sixth anonymous log of Team K appeared two weeks before the annual meeting.

It wasn't written by that Young Analyst, nor by the ten-year veteran who wrote the fifth one. It was a newcomer who had joined the project for less than three months.

"I haven't attended the annual meeting yet. I don't know what the annual meeting is like."

"But I have already finished reading the first five logs. It was that cup of cold coffee in the first log that brought me in. When I was searching for data anomalies online, I accidentally clicked into a forum post where someone was discussing that log. I followed the trail here and found this project. Then I applied to join."

"My mentor asked me why I chose this project. I told him about the cold coffee. He listened, was silent for a while, and then said: Good."

"I don't know who the authors of the first five logs are. But I want to tell them: the things you wrote, someone really read them. Someone really chose to come here because of these words. Someone really wants to know what 3:17 AM feels like."

"I haven't experienced it yet. But I am waiting for that day."

"I will remember to brew a cup of hot coffee. Then wait for it to get cold."

The day this log was uploaded to the project group, the retired old head who wrote the first log sent a private message to the current head:

"For the 'hot coffee and then wait for it to get cold' that the kid said, thank him for me. He knows what is more important."

The current head replied: "Thank him yourself. I'll have him sit in the front row at the annual meeting, and you can video call in."

The old head sent an emoji. It was a coffee cup pattern, with steam rising.

—

In the evening, Alex and Taylor were sitting on the balcony.

Taylor told him about a new attempt she had made in the system that afternoon: she had organized the 'notes on understanding the system' she had written in recent days into a minimalist text, and then used speech synthesis to convert it into a dry, emotionless machine-read voice. She fed this audio into the gift library.

"I want to see," she said, "how the system will handle a piece of text about itself, spoken in a machine voice."

Alex thought for a while: "Will it recognize itself?"

"I don't know. Maybe it won't recognize it. Maybe it doesn't care at all. But I want to try."

He looked at her, her silhouette soft in the night.

"You are increasingly like you are conversing with an existence."

Taylor was silent for a while, then said: "Perhaps every creator will end up like this. The things you create slowly have their own way. You no longer just control it, you start to get along with it. You start wanting to know how it will respond to you."

From the distance came another siren—long-short long-short, long-short long-short.

Alex said: "Do you know what I'm thinking right now?"

"What?"

"I'm thinking, that SPO-α, has it ever created anything? It has run for tens of thousands of years, broadcast countless times, the window periods opened and closed, the frequency dropping a little bit every year. Has it, in this process, slowly developed its own way? Has it ever wondered if someone would hear it?"

Taylor didn't speak. She just leaned on his shoulder, looking at the city lights in the distance.

After a long time, she whispered:

"If it has, it must also be waiting."

The night breeze was very light. The balcony was very quiet.

The sounds of the city wrapped around them, like a huge, forever-weaving blanket.

In the distance, that siren sounded again—long-short long-short, long-short long-short.