241: Chapter 241 The First Diary

Taylor's system began speaking in Alex's voice every day.

It was not the kind of gift that appeared occasionally. It was every day. A fixed time, a fixed duration, a fixed method.

Every evening around six o'clock, when the system had been running for about seventy minutes, after the window went silent, a new voice composed of fragments of Alex's speech would appear in the gift location. It lasted about forty seconds to one minute. The content consisted of sentences he had recorded while sitting on the bench, chopped up, rearranged, and organized into new sequences.

The evening of the seventh day: Some words he had spoken were picked out—"wild duck," "wind," "Little Girl," "lake," "sun"—repeated according to a certain pattern, like a poem consisting only of nouns.

The evening of the fourteenth day: A complete sentence appeared, one he had never said before: "The wind did not come today." That sentence was pieced together from the fragments of the three words "wind," "today," and "did not," with a two-second silence inserted in between.

The evening of the twenty-first day: A narrative lasting a minute and a half appeared, composed of over a dozen sentence fragments. It sounded like someone recounting the events of a certain day, but those sentences came from completely different days, rearranged into a new story. In the story, the wild ducks flew away, the wind was strong, a Little Girl was learning to walk, and the sun set.

Taylor recorded all of these, waiting for that one minute every evening.

Alex sometimes waited with her. Sometimes he was in the study by himself, but around six o'clock, he would stop and listen to the activity over in the studio.

"It is writing a diary for you," Taylor said one day.

Alex thought for a moment: "Perhaps it is recording things for me that I have forgotten myself."

"What have you forgotten?"

"Forgot how strong the wind was that day. Forgot how many times that Little Girl learning to walk fell. Forgot when the wild ducks flew away." He paused, "But the system remembers."

Taylor looked at him without speaking.

She suddenly remembered the materials she had used for hundreds of days and had long since forgotten. The system remembered them too. It remembered the order in which they were fed in, the time they appeared, and every moment they encountered other materials.

"It is more diligent than I am," she said softly.

The Little Girl who recorded bird calls sent a package.

It was not a letter, but a very small recording device, the kind of children's toy that costs a few dozen yuan, red, with a note stuck to it:

"To the person who records sounds"

The Young Analyst connected the device to the computer; inside was a recording, about three minutes long.

The recording began with a rustling sound, like the sound of someone walking while holding the device. Then came a long silence, with only the sound of the wind. Then, bird calls came from the distance—not just one, but several, chirping away; it was impossible to tell what kind of birds they were. The bird calls lasted for about a minute, then slowly faded away, leaving only the wind at the end.

The recording ended.

The Young Analyst finished listening and listened to it again.

After finishing the second listen, she discovered that in the background, besides the wind and the bird calls, there was a very light, almost inaudible sound. She turned the volume to the maximum and listened carefully.

It was the sound of breathing. A Little Girl's breathing. Very light, very slow, as if afraid of startling those birds.

She was waiting. While waiting for the bird calls, she was breathing.

The Young Analyst sat at her workstation, listening to that breathing, and did not move for a long time.

Then she saved the recording and placed it together with that crayon drawing and that photograph.

She sent a text message to that unknown number:

"Received. The bird calls are very pleasant. Your breathing is also very pleasant."

A few minutes later, a reply came:

"She says thank you. She says next time she will record trees for you to listen to."

In the nursing home, Irene began to respond to Kim Soon-ja in a new way.

Not speaking. Nodding.

That afternoon, Kim Soon-ja placed her hand on the back of Irene's hand and said: "The sun is very nice today, do you want to go out?"

Irene's hand did not move. But her head nodded gently.

Kim Soon-ja was stunned. The caregiver nearby was also stunned.

This was the first time in eight years that Irene had taken the initiative to respond with body language.

The caregiver hurriedly pushed the wheelchair, and Kim Soon-ja followed alongside, crossing the corridor together and arriving in the courtyard. The sunlight was very nice, just like that day. The trees were still there, the grass was still there, and the clouds were still drifting slowly.

Irene looked at those things, and the light in her eyes was brighter than last time.

Kim Soon-ja placed her hand on the back of her hand without speaking.

After a while, Irene turned her head toward her and looked at her. Then her hand drew a circle on the back of Kim Soon-ja's hand.

That circle was more complete and slower than the one drawn last time.

Kim Soon-ja's tears flowed down.

She said softly: "You are thanking me."

Irene did not answer. But she looked into Kim Soon-ja's eyes, and there was a hint of a smile in that light.

The caregiver later wrote in the records:

"Kim Soon-ja spent over a hundred days teaching Irene to nod."

"Irene used one nod to teach Kim Soon-ja what is worthwhile."

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

Taylor talked about the system's "diary" every evening. Alex talked about the Little Girl's recording and that nod in the nursing home.

"Over a hundred days," Taylor said softly, "to teach a nod."

"Hmm."

"That Little Girl recorded for three minutes, and only in the last few seconds could you hear her breathing."

"Hmm."

Taylor was silent for a moment, then said: "The system is also waiting. Every evening at six o'clock, waiting for that time window."

Alex looked at her.

"It is waiting for you to come and listen," Taylor said. "Waiting for you to come and listen to the words it says using your voice. You don't know when it will speak, but it speaks every day."

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

Taylor leaned on his shoulder and said softly:

"Do you come to listen every day?"

Alex thought for a moment: "Most of the time. Occasionally I am busy."

"Does it know?"

"It doesn't know. But it will keep waiting."

The night breeze was very light. It was very quiet on the balcony.

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

Taylor suddenly said: "That cup, after you used it once, it has been waiting."

Alex looked at her.

"Waiting for the next night that needs cooling," Taylor said. "It doesn't know when that will come. But it is there."

Alex did not speak. He just looked at that cup, watching for a while.

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