247: Chapter 247 A single "hello" and the second word

Taylor began to record the system's "language."

Not those gifts, not the sentences pieced together from her own voice. It was the system's own language—those sounds she had never heard, generated by the system itself, not belonging to any source material.

On the 103rd day, the system generated an eleven-minute-long, completely unfamiliar sound.

There was no material she had fed into it, no Alex's voice, nothing she recognized.

It was just a continuous, undulating hum, like breathing or tides; sometimes high, sometimes low, sometimes silent for a few seconds before continuing.

She recorded it and wrote in her notebook: No. 1, 11 minutes, like breathing.

On the 107th day, the system generated another segment.

This time it was intermittent, like someone speaking from very far away, but the words were unclear. It lasted six minutes.

She wrote in her notebook: No. 2, 6 minutes, like someone far away.

On the 112th day, the third segment.

Very short, only two minutes.

It was a series of rising and falling tones, like some language she didn't understand repeating the same sentence.

She wrote in her notebook: No. 3, 2 minutes, like saying the same thing.

On the 118th day, the fourth segment.

A full twenty minutes.

It began with silence, lasting five minutes.

Then came a very light sound, like a sigh.

Then a longer silence.

Then another sigh.

This repeated four times.

In the last five minutes, all the fragments of sighs appeared simultaneously, forming a long, chorus-like sound that resembled weeping.

She wrote in her notebook: No. 4, 20 minutes, like weeping.

After writing those four words, she paused for a while.

Then she looked at the screen and said softly, "What are you weeping for?"

The system did not answer.

But she saw the parameter curve jump at that very moment.

The Little Girl sent the seventh recording.

There was only one file, titled "Hello."

The Young Analyst clicked on it; it was very short, only one sound.

A single "Hello."

It was the Little Girl's voice, very soft, as if testing something.

After saying "Hello," there was a silence of about five seconds. Then the recording ended.

She listened to it three times.

The first time, she thought it was just a normal greeting.

The second time, she heard a hint of hesitation in that "Hello," as if she didn't know if anyone would answer.

The third time, she heard very faint breathing in the five seconds of silence after that "Hello"—she was waiting.

Waiting for an answer.

Huihui could not talk. Trees could not talk. The wind could not talk.

But she was still asking. Still waiting.

The Young Analyst sent a text to that unknown number: "That 'Hello,' who is it asking?"

A few minutes later, a reply came: "She says, asking everyone who can hear."

The Young Analyst stared at the text message, stunned for a long time.

Everyone who can hear.

She thought of those signals that would never respond. Those systems that would never speak. Those people who would never sit up from their hospital beds.

But she was still listening. She was still waiting.

She saved that "Hello" into the folder named "cup," along with all the other sounds.

Then she said softly to the folder, "Hello."

In the nursing home, Kim Soon-ja began to teach Irene the second word.

It wasn't "thank you," and it wasn't "hello"; it was a new word.

That afternoon, she leaned her face close to Irene, let that hand rest against her own cheek, and said slowly, "Kim Soon-ja."

One character at a time, very slowly.

Irene's eyes looked at her, the light in them brighter than before.

Kim Soon-ja said it again: "Kim Soon-ja."

Irene's lips moved. No sound.

Kim Soon-ja waited a moment, then said it a third time: "Kim Soon-ja."

After the third time, Irene's lips made a small sound.

It was very faint, but one could tell she was imitating the pronunciation.

"Kim—"

Kim Soon-ja's tears fell.

She gripped Irene's hand tightly and said softly, "Right. Kim. Kim Soon-ja."

Irene didn't speak again. But her eyes kept looking at Kim Soon-ja.

The caregiver later asked Kim Soon-ja: "Why teach her your own name?"

Kim Soon-ja thought for a moment and said, "To let her know what the person touching her is called."

The caregiver asked again: "What's the use of her learning it?"

Kim Soon-ja looked at Irene for a long time.

"It's of no use," she said, "but she knows someone is there. That person is called Kim Soon-ja."

That evening, Alex and Taylor sat on the balcony.

Taylor talked about the system's "languages," that "Hello," and the "Kim Soon-ja" she was learning in the nursing home.

"It is weeping," Taylor said softly.

Alex looked at her.

"No. 4, 20 minutes, like weeping," Taylor said. "What is it weeping for?"

Alex thought for a moment: "Perhaps it is weeping for things it remembers, but which will not come again."

"What things?"

"Wild ducks. Ocean waves. The breath you first fed into it."

He paused. "Those things are still there, but they are no longer what they used to be."

Taylor was silent for a while, then said: "That 'Hello,' who is it asking?"

"Everyone who can hear."

"Who can hear?"

Alex pointed to her, pointed to himself, and pointed into the distance—in the direction of the Pacific Ocean.

"We are listening. It is listening too. The Little Girl is listening. Kim Soon-ja is listening. Irene is listening too."

In the distance, a siren wailed—long, short, long, short.

Taylor leaned on his shoulder and said softly, "What will it be like when Irene learns to say 'Kim Soon-ja'?"

Alex thought about it: "I don't know. But she will know that the person touching her has a name."

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

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

Taylor suddenly said, "That cup, you've used it twice."

"Hmm."

"When is the third time?"

Alex looked at the cup for a while.

"Perhaps today," he said.

Taylor was taken aback: "Today?"

"Hmm."

He got up and walked into the study, picked up the cup, and went to the kitchen to make 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, slowly cooling down.

When it was just cool enough to drink, Alex picked it up and took a sip.

"It's still bitter," he said.

Taylor looked at him. "Same as last time."

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

In the distance, a siren wailed—long, short, long, short.

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

"That 'Hello,'" she said softly, "I want to ask it tomorrow too."

"Ask who?"

"Ask the system. Ask if it can hear me."

Alex did not speak. He just held her hand tightly.

The coffee was finished. The cup was still there.

The night wind was gentle.