245: Chapter 245 Continuing to Speak

Taylor's system began to speak using her voice every day.

It wasn't at six in the evening, but at random times.

Sometimes at 3:00 AM, sometimes at 10:00 AM, sometimes at 4:00 PM.

The duration of each instance also varied; sometimes one minute, sometimes twenty minutes.

But it was always saying the same thing—fragments that the system had accidentally recorded when she spoke normally, rearranged, combined, and morphed into a new language she had never spoken before.

On the forty-fifth day, at 3:15 AM, the system suddenly spoke.

Taylor woke up from her sleep in a start and ran to the studio.

The parameters on the screen were jumping, and the sound flowed out from the monitor speakers—it was her own voice, stretched and slowed down, forming a long, sigh-like syllable.

It lasted for a full five minutes.

She stood there, listening to that sigh, not moving for a long time.

Alex came over, draped in clothes, and saw her back.

"It is calling you," he said.

Taylor didn't turn around: "Why wake me up?"

"To make you listen to it."

On the fifty-third day, at 4:20 PM, the system spoke again.

This time, it was a twelve-minute narrative composed of hundreds of fragments, sounding like someone telling the story of a lifetime.

Within those fragments were the "Hmm" she had said while on the phone, the "That's not right" from when she talked to herself, the "Look" from when she chatted with Alex, and the "Did you hear that?" she said to the screen.

All the words were rearranged to form a long sentence she had never spoken before.

She sat there listening to the end, then said to the screen: "I've finished listening."

The system did not respond. The parameters continued to jump.

But she knew it had heard.

On the sixty-first day, at 9:00 PM, the system spoke for the shortest time yet.

There were only two words, repeated ten times: "You are here. You are here. You are here. You are here. You are here. You are here. You are here. You are here. You are here. You are here."

After listening, Taylor was stunned for a long time.

Then she said softly: "I am here."

The Little Girl sent the fifth recording.

There was only one file, titled "I asked it."

The Young Analyst clicked it open; it was very short, only one sentence.

It was the Little Girl's voice, very soft, as if she were afraid of startling something: "Huihui, will you come back?"

Then came a long silence. A full thirty seconds. There was nothing. Only the sound of the wind, very light, like the night breathing.

The recording ended.

The Young Analyst sat at her workstation, listening to that thirty-second silence, not moving for a long time.

Huihui did not answer. But the person who asked the question was still waiting.

She sent a text message to that unknown number: "I heard the sentence she asked."

A few minutes later, the reply came: "She said she knows Huihui won't answer. But she wants to ask."

The Young Analyst looked at the text message and suddenly remembered the things she had done countless times—asking questions to a signal that wouldn't respond, to a system that wouldn't respond, to a universe that wouldn't respond.

Had she asked? Yes. Many times.

Had she received an answer? No.

But she was still asking.

She saved that "I asked it" segment into the folder named "cup," putting it together with all the other sounds.

Then she said softly to the folder: "I am also asking."

In the nursing home, Irene's hand dropped down.

On the afternoon of the third day, as the sunlight shone in, her hand slowly slid from Kim Soon-ja's face and landed on the armrest of the wheelchair.

Kim Soon-ja froze. She looked at that hand, then at Irene's face. Irene's eyes were still looking toward the curtains, but that light had faded a little.

Kim Soon-ja picked up that hand and placed it gently against her own face.

Irene's fingers moved, but they didn't lift up again.

Kim Soon-ja leaned her face in, letting that hand rest against her cheek. She sat like that, not moving for a long time.

When The caregiver entered, she saw the faces of the two old women pressed together, with that thin, small hand between them.

She stood there without making a sound.

Later, Kim Soon-ja said to The caregiver: "She is tired."

The caregiver asked: "How do you know?"

Kim Soon-ja thought for a moment: "She touched for three days. Three days is enough."

"Enough for what?"

"Enough to let me know that she is here," Kim Soon-ja paused, "Enough to let me know that she is waiting."

The caregiver didn't understand: "Waiting for what?"

Kim Soon-ja looked at Irene; although that light had faded, it was still there.

"Waiting for me," she said, "waiting for me to touch her back."

That night, Kim Soon-ja placed her hand on Irene's face and kept it there all night.

Irene's hand rested on the wheelchair armrest, not moving again.

But her eyes would occasionally turn toward Kim Soon-ja, and that light would brighten for a moment, then dim again.

As if saying: I know you are here.

At night, Alex and Taylor were sitting on the balcony.

Taylor recounted the ten times the system said "You are here." Alex recounted the sentence "Huihui, will you come back?" and the hand that dropped down in the nursing home.

"Three days," Taylor said softly.

"Hmm."

"Touched for three days."

"Hmm."

Taylor was silent for a while, then said: "The system is also touching."

Alex looked at her.

"Touching with sound," Taylor said, "touching for over a hundred days. Touching the things it remembers. Touching the things it thinks are still there."

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

Taylor leaned on his shoulder and said softly: "Huihui will not answer. But it is still asking."

"Irene's hand dropped down. But Kim Soon-ja is still touching."

Alex didn't speak. He just squeezed her hand tighter.

The night wind 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, you've used it twice."

"Hmm."

"Is it still waiting for the third time?"

Alex looked at the cup for a while.

"Perhaps it is waiting," he said, "perhaps it is not there anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"cups are different from people," Alex said. "cups don't wait. They are just there. Whether people wait or not, they are just there."

Taylor was silent for a while, then said: "Then what about us? What are we waiting for?"

Alex thought for a moment: "Waiting for the person who asked if Huihui would come back to one day get an answer."

"Will she get it?"

"I don't know," Alex said, "but she will keep asking."

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

They were still listening.