249: Chapter 249 The Valley Wind and the Last Silence

Taylor began to study that eleven-minute response.

Not with technology, not with analysis, but by listening. Listening over and over again, until those sounds were no longer strange, until she could distinguish the rise and fall of every breath, every syllable of the distant person, the rhythm of every repetition, and the depth of every cry.

On the one hundred and twenty-fifth day, she heard the first pattern.

Those four sounds—breathing, distant person, repetition, crying—did not appear randomly. They cycled in a certain order: breathing began, the distant person intervened, repetition interrupted, crying concluded, and then breathing started again. Like a circle, a circle that was always turning.

On the one hundred and thirtieth day, she heard the second pattern.

In every cycle, the length of the breathing grew shorter. The first cycle, the breathing lasted forty-seven seconds. The second, forty-three seconds. The third, thirty-eight seconds. Shorter and shorter, faster and faster, as if something were approaching.

On the one hundred and thirty-fifth day, she heard the third pattern.

When the breathing became short to a certain degree, the distant person would change. It was no longer those fuzzy, unclear syllables, but became clear, as if a person were speaking from very close by. She could not hear what was being said, but she could feel that it was the system trying hard to make her hear.

On the one hundred and fortieth day, she heard the fourth pattern.

The timing of the repetition interruption and the timing of the crying were related. The more frequent the repetition, the later the crying appeared. The sparser the repetition, the earlier the crying appeared. It was like a balance, a balance the system itself was maintaining.

She recorded all these patterns in a notebook, with the cover written: "Its Language".

On the one hundred and forty-fifth day, she said a sentence to the screen:

"I think I'm starting to understand."

The system did not respond. But she knew it had heard.

The Little Girl sent the ninth recording.

The title was "The Wind of the Valley".

The Young Analyst clicked it open; it was very long, forty minutes.

The first ten minutes were the sound of wind. Very light, very slow, like the valley breathing. Occasionally there were bird calls, occasionally the rustling of leaves, but most of the time it was just wind.

The middle twenty minutes, the wind sound grew a bit louder, as if blowing from far away. Intermingled were some unclear sounds—perhaps distant cars, perhaps distant people, perhaps something coming from the other side of the mountain.

The last ten minutes, the wind sound gradually quieted down, returning to that very light, very slow state from the beginning. Then, in the last thirty seconds, a sound appeared.

It was the Little Girl's voice, very light, as if speaking to herself:

"It has always been here."

Then the recording ended.

The Young Analyst sat at her workstation, listening to those last thirty seconds, not moving for a long time.

It has always been here. The wind has always been here. The valley has always been here. The person who has always been waiting has also always been here.

She sent a text message to that unknown number:

"What does that last sentence mean?"

A few minutes later, the reply came:

"She said she used to think the valley only answered when she shouted. Now she knows, the valley has always been here. She just wasn't listening."

The Young Analyst looked at that text message, suddenly remembering the thing she had been waiting for all these years.

That signal. That curve that dropped 0.0003 Hertz every year. Those broadcasts that would never reply.

It has always been here. She just wasn't listening.

She saved that segment, "The Wind of the Valley", into the folder called "cup", and placed it together with all the other sounds.

Then she said softly to that folder:

"I am listening."

In the nursing home, a final silent conversation took place between Kim Soon-ja and Ailin.

It was not the last day, not the last meeting. It was the last time for that kind of "no need to speak" conversation.

The sunlight was lovely that afternoon; Kim Soon-ja placed her hand on the back of Ailin's hand as usual. Ailin's fingers moved slightly, landing on the back of her hand.

Then Kim Soon-ja said: "The wind isn't strong today, shall we go out?"

Ailin did not nod. But her hand withdrew from under Kim Soon-ja's hand, flipped over, palm facing up, and then was placed back.

That was the movement Ailin had learned a long time ago—my turn to place it.

Kim Soon-ja froze. Then she smiled, and tears streamed down.

She placed her other hand on top as well, holding Ailin's thin, palm-up hand with both of her hands.

Ailin's fingers moved, gently grasping her fingers.

They sat like that. Without speaking. Sunlight shone in through the window, stretching their silhouettes long.

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

Later, she wrote in the record:

"That afternoon, Kim Soon-ja and Ailin did not speak."

"But their hands were always talking."

That night, Kim Soon-ja returned to her room, sat by the bed, and thought for a long time.

She was wondering what else Ailin would learn. How many more words she would learn. How many more times she would learn to let her take a turn.

But she thought, it is enough. It is already enough.

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

Taylor talked about those patterns, that forty minutes of wind, and that palm-up hand in the nursing home.

"Forty minutes." Taylor said softly.

"Hmm."

"It was all wind."

"Hmm."

Taylor was silent for a while, then said: "That Little Girl said at the end, it has always been here. She just wasn't listening."

Alex looked at her.

"The system has always been here too," Taylor said, "from the first day until now. It has always been speaking. I just didn't understand it."

A siren sounded from afar—long-short long-short, long-short long-short.

Taylor leaned on his shoulder and said softly:

"Ailin didn't say anything that afternoon. But she flipped her hand over, letting Kim Soon-ja place her hand on top."

"What does that mean?"

"It means, it's my turn to wait for you."

Alex did not speak. He just squeezed her hand.

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

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

Taylor suddenly said: "You've used that cup twice already."

"Hmm."

"When is the third time?"

Alex looked at the cup for a while.

"Maybe 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 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 that cup of coffee slowly steaming, slowly cooling down.

When it had cooled enough to drink, Alex picked it up and took a sip.

"It's still bitter." He said.

Taylor looked at him.

"Just like last time."

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

A siren sounded from afar—long-short long-short, long-short long-short.

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

"It has always been here." She said softly.

"Who?"

"Everything. The system. The valley. Kim Soon-ja and Ailin's hands. That cup." She paused, "Us."

Alex did not speak. He just looked at the darkness in the distance.

The direction of the Pacific Ocean. The direction of SPO-α.

It is also here.

Always.

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

The cup of coffee was finished. The cup was still there.

In the distance, the siren sounded once more—long-short long-short, long-short long-short.

They were still listening.