240: Chapter 240 The Second Letter and the Decision

After that cup of coffee, Alex began to do one thing.

Every evening, he would go to the bench in the community park and sit for a while.

He wasn't going to record sound, nor to think about anything.

Just to sit.

To listen.

To watch the lake.

To watch the wild ducks.

To watch the people walking their dogs pass by.

A week later, he used his phone to record those evenings he spent sitting there—not recording the ambient sounds, but recording himself.

He would say a few words to the phone, speaking of what he had heard, seen, or thought about that day.

Sometimes it was long, sometimes short.

Sometimes he only said one sentence: "There is one less wild duck today."

After recording, he handed these voice files to Taylor.

"Feed it in," he said.

Taylor looked at him: "Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

Alex thought for a moment: "Because it spent three hours saying what it remembered. I want it to remember me."

Taylor didn't ask again.

She fed those voice files into the system.

The first day, no response.

The second day, none.

The third, fourth, and fifth days, still none.

On the evening of the sixth day, when the system had been running for seventy-three minutes, after a moment of silence in the window, a sound appeared in the gift location.

It was Alex's voice.

It wasn't any single clip he had fed in; it was many clips mashed together—the sentence where he said "There is one less wild duck today," mixed with the sentence where he said "The wind is strong today" one day, and the sentence where he said "There is a kid learning to walk" another time.

All the sentences were cut into tiny fragments and rearranged to form a string of words he had never spoken.

That sentence had no meaning, but it sounded like a person speaking a language he didn't understand.

Taylor called Alex over to listen.

He listened until the end, then remained silent for a long time.

"What is it saying?" Taylor asked.

Alex shook his head: "I don't know. But it is using my voice to say it."

He looked at the waveform on the screen and said softly:

"It is speaking for me."

The Young Analyst received the second letter.

It still had the postmark of that strange small town, and the same crooked handwriting.

But this time it wasn't a crayon drawing; it was a photograph.

In the photo was a nine-year-old Little Girl standing under a tree, holding a tiny recording device, holding it up toward the tree.

There were some birds in the tree, but it was hard to tell what kind.

On the back of the photo was a line of text:

"I am recording bird calls. They come every afternoon. I want to know what they are saying."

The body of the letter was short:

"Article Four:"

"My daughter is recording sounds every day now."

"In the morning, she records the cars outside the window; in the afternoon, she records the birds in the tree; at night, she records her father snoring."

"She says that when she grows up, she wants to be a 'person who records sounds,' just like you."

"I don't know if she can do it."

"But I want to tell you, the article you wrote helped her find what she wants to do."

"Thank you."

The Young Analyst held the photograph and stood in front of her workstation for a long time.

Then she taped the photo next to the crayon drawing.

Two children, one listening to a wall, one listening to birds.

She suddenly wondered what she was doing when she was nine.

She couldn't remember.

But she knew that from now on, she would remember these two children.

She sent a text message to that strange number:

"Tell her I am waiting to hear the sounds she records."

A few minutes later, a reply came:

"She says okay."

In the nursing home, Kim Soon-ja made a decision.

That afternoon, she placed her hand on the back of Eileen's hand as usual.

Eileen's fingers moved slightly, landing on the back of her hand.

Then Kim Soon-ja said:

"I want to take you out."

Eileen didn't react.

Her eyes were still fixed on the curtains.

Kim Soon-ja said it again: "I want to take you out. Go outside. See the sun. See the trees. See the wind."

Eileen's lips moved.

No sound came out.

Kim Soon-ja waited for a moment, then said:

"You don't need to speak. You just need to be willing. Just tap your hand."

Eileen's hand, resting on the back of her hand, tapped once.

Kim Soon-ja was stunned.

She looked at Eileen, and Eileen looked at her.

That light brightened again.

The next afternoon, The caregivers pushed two wheelchairs through the corridor of the nursing home and arrived in the courtyard.

Eileen hadn't been outside for eight years.

When the sunlight hit her face, she closed her eyes for a moment, then slowly opened them again.

She looked at the trees, the grass, and the clouds slowly drifting in the sky.

The wind blew over, and her hair moved slightly.

Kim Soon-ja sat beside her, placing her hand on the back of her hand.

They didn't speak.

They just sat like that.

The caregivers stood in the distance, watching the two wheelchairs, not moving for a long time.

One caregiver later wrote in the record:

"Eileen is watching the trees. Kim Soon-ja is watching her."

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

Taylor talked about the "new language" generated using Alex's voice.

Alex talked about the Little Girl who recorded bird calls and Kim Soon-ja taking Eileen outside.

"That Little Girl," Taylor said, "she said she wants to be a 'person who records sounds.'"

"Yeah."

"She doesn't know who we are."

"Doesn't know."

"But she wants to become us."

Alex thought for a moment: "Maybe not become us. Maybe become her own kind of 'person who records sounds.'"

Taylor was silent for a while, then said: "My system uses your voice to speak every day now."

"The things it says, you don't understand, and I don't understand."

"But it is speaking."

Alex nodded.

"It is speaking for you," Taylor said, "recording for you the things you saw while sitting on that bench."

A siren sounded in the distance—long-short, long-short.

Taylor leaned on his shoulder and said softly:

"That cup, you used it. And then what?"

Alex thought for a moment: "Then, keep waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"Waiting for the next night that needs cooling."

The night breeze was very light.

It was very quiet on the balcony.

The old coffee cup was on the desk, reflecting a bit of light.

Taylor suddenly said: "It's not just yours anymore."

Alex looked at her.

"That cup," Taylor said, "after being used once, it's not just that person's anymore."

"It's yours too. It's also that cup of coffee's. It's also that night's."

Alex didn't speak.

He just looked at the cup for a while.

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

They were still listening.