244: Chapter 244 The Day It Flew Away and the Hand That Had Always Been Left Behind

On the fortieth day, at 6:03 PM, the system spoke.

But it was not Alex's voice.

Taylor froze the second she heard it. It was her own voice—not the breathing, acapella, or recitation exercises that had been fed into it, but the voice she used in everyday speech. These were voices she had never recorded, never fed into the system, and had only ever spoken in this room.

Where did the system get them?

She continued to listen, and gradually understood.

It was not words she had spoken. It was pieced together by the system from the traces left behind during her normal speech—fragments she had never noticed, accidentally recorded while she was talking to herself in the studio, on the phone, or chatting with Alex.

It had been listening all along. It had been recording all along. It had been collecting things she thought had never existed.

The first minute: The fragments were arranged into a sentence she had never said. The sentence had no meaning, but it sounded like someone asking a question. After the question, there was a three-second silence. Then, it continued.

The second minute: The fragments were stretched and slowed down, forming a long, sigh-like syllable. It lasted for twenty seconds.

The third minute: The fragments were cut into extremely short pieces and played rapidly, like someone nervously repeating the same thing.

The fourth minute: All the fragments appeared at once, like twelve of her speaking simultaneously, with no one able to hear anyone else clearly.

The fifth minute: Silence.

The sixth minute: Only two words, repeated three times: "I am here. I am here. I am here."

After listening, Taylor remained silent for a long time.

When Alex entered, he saw her sitting there, tears streaming down her face.

"What is it saying?" he asked.

Taylor looked at the screen and said softly: "It is telling me that it has been here the whole time."

The Little Girl who recorded the birds sent a fourth recording.

This time there was only one file, titled "The Day Huihui Flew Away."

The Young Analyst clicked it open; it was long, twenty-three minutes.

For the first ten minutes, the chirping of the birds was the same as usual, chattering and very lively. The Little Girl's voice appeared occasionally: "Huihui is here," "Huihui brought a grey one today," "Huihui is eating."

Around the twelve-minute mark, there was suddenly a sound—like a large bird flying past, the sound of wings flapping, very loud. Then all the bird chirping stopped.

Silence. A long silence. A full five minutes.

Around the seventeen-minute mark, the bird chirping started again, but it was much sparser than before. The Little Girl's voice appeared, very softly: "Huihui is not here anymore."

Silence again. Two minutes.

Around the nineteen-minute mark, the Little Girl's voice appeared again, even softer this time, as if speaking to herself: "Will it come back tomorrow?"

Silence again. It remained silent until the end at twenty-three minutes.

The recording ended.

The Young Analyst sat at her workstation, listening to those last two minutes of silence, not moving for a long time.

She remembered the three-second recording. After the bird flew away. Now, it was after Huihui had flown away.

She sent a text message to that unknown number: "Will Huihui come back?"

A few minutes later, the reply came: "She says she doesn't know. But she is waiting."

In the nursing home, Eileen's hand remained on Kim Soon-ja's face.

From yesterday afternoon until now, it had been over twenty-four hours.

When Kim Soon-ja ate, she leaned her face forward to let Eileen's hand stay against it. When Kim Soon-ja slept, she moved her bed to Eileen's bedside, letting that hand reach over from the wheelchair armrest to rest on her face. When Kim Soon-ja woke up in the morning, the hand was still there.

The caregivers watched, but no one spoke.

In the afternoon, the sunlight shone in, making Eileen's face glow. Her eyes were still looking toward the curtains, but that light was brighter than it had ever been before.

Kim Soon-ja placed her hand on the back of Eileen's hand, holding it gently.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked.

Eileen did not speak. But her hand, on Kim Soon-ja's face, moved gently. It slid from the left to the right, then from the right to the left.

As if feeling a face she had just met.

Kim Soon-ja's tears flowed again.

The caregiver stood at the door, watching the two elderly women, not moving for a long time.

Later, she wrote in the record: "Eileen's hand rested on Kim Soon-ja's face for twenty-eight hours." "Kim Soon-ja's tears flowed for twenty-eight hours."

In the evening, Alex and Taylor sat on the balcony.

Taylor told him about the words the system had spoken in her own voice. Alex told her about the day Huihui flew away and the hand that had remained in place.

"Twenty-eight hours," Taylor said softly.

"Yeah."

"It has been resting there the whole time."

"Yeah."

Taylor was silent for a moment, then said: "The system is doing the same. Resting on the fact that it has been here all along."

Alex looked at her.

"It has no hands. But it has a voice. It uses its voice to tell me that it is still here."

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

Taylor leaned on his shoulder and said softly: "When that hand was resting on her face, what was Eileen thinking?"

Alex thought for a moment: "Thinking, this is her face. Thinking about it for a whole day."

"Thinking about it for a whole day?"

"Yeah. Because it was the first time she had touched it. Because she didn't know how much longer she would be able to."

The night wind was gentle. The balcony was very quiet.

The 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 for the second time."

"Yeah."

"Will the second time come?"

Alex looked at the cup for a while.

"Maybe today," he said.

Taylor paused: "Today?"

Alex stood up, walked into the study, picked up the cup, and went to the kitchen to brew a cup of coffee.

It was very hot. He carried the cup back to the balcony and sat down next to Taylor.

Neither of them spoke. They just watched the coffee slowly steam and slowly cool down.

When it had cooled to the perfect temperature to drink, Alex picked it up and took a sip.

"It's still bitter," he said.

Taylor looked at him.

"How is it?"

Alex thought for a moment: "The same as last time."

"It's right that it's the same."

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

Taylor leaned on his shoulder, looking at the city lights in the distance.

"Is that hand still resting there?" she asked.

Alex nodded: "Still resting there."

"Will Huihui come back?"

"I don't know. But someone is waiting."

The night wind was gentle. The balcony was very quiet.

The cup of coffee had been finished. The cup remained.