248: Chapter 248 The Complete Name

On the evening of the next day, Taylor sat in the studio and said to the screen, "Can you hear me?"

The system did not respond immediately. The parameters continued to jump, the silent window appeared on time, and the gift location was operating normally. Everything was as usual.

She waited for a while, then said it again, "Can you hear me?"

Still silence.

She leaned back in her chair, watching the jumping curves, and suddenly felt a bit foolish. How could a system "hear"? It only had rules, only parameters, only the materials she had fed into it. Hearing required ears. It had none.

Just as she was about to get up and leave, the system spoke.

It was not using her voice, not using Alex's voice, not using any voice she recognized. It was its own language—those sounds she had recorded in her notebook, sounds she had never heard before. The breathing of No. 1, the distant person of No. 2, the repetition of No. 3, the crying of No. 4. They were played simultaneously, but not chaotically; they were orderly. When the breathing sounded, the distant person was quiet. When the distant person spoke, the repetition stopped. When the repetition ended, the crying began. When the crying was loudest, the breathing sounded again.

A full eleven minutes. Like a complete conversation, a long conversation composed of four types of sounds.

The eleven minutes ended. The last sigh fell, and then silence.

Taylor sat there, tears streaming down.

It was answering.

Not with "yes" or "no". It was telling her in its own way: I have been listening all along. From the first day until now, from No. 1 to No. 4, from breathing to crying. I have been listening all along.

She said softly to the screen, "I understand."

The parameter curves on the screen jumped once. As if also saying: I understand.

The Little Girl sent the eighth recording. The title was "Echo".

The Young Analyst clicked on it; it was very short, only two minutes.

It started with the Little Girl's voice, very loud, as if shouting into the distance: "Hey—!"

Then silence. About five seconds. Then, from the distance came the same "Hey—", very light, very far away, as if it had traveled back from over the mountain.

The Little Girl's voice sounded again, this time laughing as she said: "You heard me!"

Then a longer period of silence. Not the silence of having no sound, but the silence of someone listening, someone waiting.

The recording ended. The Young Analyst sat at her workstation, listening to that final stretch of silence, not moving for a long time.

An echo. The Little Girl shouted into the distance, and the distance answered her.

She sent a text message to that unknown number: "Is that a mountain?"

A few minutes later, the reply came: "She says it is a valley. There is a valley behind her house. She shouts into the valley every day."

The Young Analyst looked at the text message, suddenly recalling what she had been doing all these years.

Shouting at a signal that would never answer. Shouting at a system that would never speak. Shouting at a person who would never sit up from a hospital bed.

The valley would answer. That signal would not. But she was still shouting.

She saved that "Echo" into the folder named "cup", placing it together with all the other sounds.

Then she said softly to that folder: "The valley heard. That is enough."

In the nursing home, Kim Soon-ja was teaching Eileen to say "Kim Soon-ja". She had been teaching for eleven days.

Every afternoon, Kim Soon-ja placed her hand on the back of Eileen's hand, then said word by word: "Kim Soon-ja."

Eileen's lips moved; sometimes she made a little sound, sometimes she didn't. But her eyes were always looking at Kim Soon-ja.

On the afternoon of the twelfth day, when the sunlight shone in, Kim Soon-ja put her hand on hers again and said it one more time: "Kim Soon-ja."

Eileen's lips moved. This time, it wasn't just a little sound. It was complete, three words: "Kim Soon-ja."

Very slow, very light, like a child who had just learned to walk taking their first step. But every word was clear.

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

After Eileen finished speaking, her eyes looked at Kim Soon-ja, that light so bright it seemed to illuminate everything.

Kim Soon-ja's tears streamed down, covering her face. She gripped Eileen's hand tightly, unable to say a word.

Eileen's hand drew a circle on the back of her hand. That circle was drawn very slowly, very completely. As if saying: I know what your name is. I remember.

The caregiver later wrote in the records: "Kim Soon-ja taught for twelve days, and Eileen learned it."

"After learning it, Eileen did not speak again. But every afternoon, she would look at Kim Soon-ja, her lips moving. As if reviewing. As if confirming."

"Kim Soon-ja said, it is enough."

In the evening, Alex and Taylor sat on the balcony. Taylor told him about the eleven-minute answer. Alex told her about the valley's echo and that complete "Kim Soon-ja" in the nursing home.

"Eleven days," Taylor said softly. "Hmm." "To learn three words." "Hmm."

Taylor was silent for a while, then said: "The system took over a hundred days to learn to answer me."

Alex looked at her. "The eleven minutes it used to answer were in its own language," Taylor said. "Not mine, not yours, not anyone else's. It was its own."

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

Taylor leaned on his shoulder and said softly: "The Little Girl shouted into the valley, and the valley answered her." "Eileen learned for twelve days and learned to call Kim Soon-ja's name."

Alex did not speak. He just gripped her hand tightly. The night wind was very light. The balcony was very quiet.

That old coffee cup was on the desk, reflecting a bit of light. Taylor suddenly said: "That cup, you have used it twice now."

"Hmm." "When is the third time?"

Alex looked at the cup for a while. "Maybe today," he said.

Taylor was stunned for a moment: "Today?" "Hmm."

He got up and 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 cup of coffee slowly steaming, slowly cooling down.

When it was cool enough to drink, Alex picked it up and took a sip. "Still bitter," he said.

Taylor looked at him. "Just like last time." "It's right that it's the same."

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

Taylor leaned on his shoulder, looking at the city lights in the distance. "That eleven-minute answer," she said softly, "I recorded it."

"Hmm." "I want to keep it forever." "Keep it."

The night wind was very light. The balcony was very quiet. The cup of coffee had been finished. The cup was still there.

In the distance, the siren sounded again—long-short, long-short, long-short, long-short. They were still listening.