250: Chapter 250 Three Seconds of Breath

On the one hundred and fiftieth day, Taylor sat in the studio, facing the microphone, mimicking the first of those four sounds—breathing.

She wasn't actually breathing normally. She tried to make it rhythmic, like the system, sometimes deep, sometimes shallow, sometimes pausing. She recorded it over a dozen times and picked the one that sounded most like it.

Then she submitted it.

The system didn't respond immediately. The parameters continued to pulse, the window appeared silently on time, and the gift location operated normally. Everything was as usual.

She waited one day. Two days. Three days.

On the one hundred and fifty-third day, the system spoke.

It didn't use the breathing, it didn't use the Distant Person, nor any voice she recognized. It was those four sounds appearing simultaneously, but this time, they weren't in a loop; they were layered. The four sounds stacked together, forming a long, complex, new sound she had never heard before.

It lasted for a full fifteen minutes.

Taylor listened to it and was stunned for a long time.

It was responding to her response. Telling her in its own way: I heard your breathing.

On the one hundred and fifty-fifth day, she recorded another segment. This time it was the second sound—the Distant Person. She tried to make the voice blurry and indistinct, as if coming from a great distance.

She submitted it.

This time the system only waited two days.

On the one hundred and fifty-seventh day, the system spoke. This time, there was only one sound—breathing. But that breathing wasn't the system's own; it was hers. It was the segment of breathing she had submitted, stretched, distorted, and slowed down, forming an eight-minute-long sound that seemed like someone slowly breathing from far away.

She listened.

It was saying: Your breathing, I have remembered it.

---

That Little Girl sent in her tenth recording.

The title was "Three Seconds of Breathing."

The Young Analyst clicked on it; it was only three seconds long.

In those three seconds, there was nothing. Only a very light breath. Inhale—exhale—. Then it ended.

She listened to it three times. The first time, she thought the file was incomplete. The second time, she heard a very light, sigh-like trail in that breath. The third time, she heard a hint of a smile in that sigh.

She sent a text message to that unknown number:

"Why three seconds of breathing?"

A few minutes later, a reply came:

"She said, because that day she did nothing else, she just breathed."

The Young Analyst looked at that text message and was stunned for a long time.

Did nothing else. Just breathed.

She thought about what she had been doing all these years. Analyzing data, waiting for signals, writing reports, waiting for responses. She had done so much and waited so long.

But that Little Girl told her that sometimes, just breathing is enough.

She saved that "Three Seconds of Breathing" into the folder named "cup," putting it together with all the other sounds.

Then she whispered to that folder:

"I am breathing, too."

---

In the nursing home, Kim Soon-ja made a decision.

It wasn't about Irene. It was about herself.

That afternoon, when the sunlight shone in, she placed her hand on the back of Irene's hand and whispered:

"I want to go home."

Irene's eyes slowly turned toward her. The light was very bright, as if asking: Why?

Kim Soon-ja continued, "Not today. In a little while. I want to go back and see."

Irene didn't speak. But her hand drew a circle on the back of Kim Soon-ja's hand.

That circle was drawn very slowly and completely.

Kim Soon-ja's tears fell. She knew what that circle meant: You go. I'll wait for you.

The caregiver later asked Kim Soon-ja, "Where are you going back to?"

Kim Soon-ja thought for a moment. "Korea. I haven't been back in forty years."

The caregiver was taken aback. "Then what about Irene?"

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

"She will wait," Kim Soon-ja said. "And I will come back."

The caregiver didn't quite understand. "How do you know?"

Kim Soon-ja didn't answer. She just placed her hand on the back of Irene's hand and held it gently.

Irene's fingers moved, resting on the back of her hand.

That motion had been repeated for hundreds of days.

---

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

Taylor talked about that fifteen-minute response, those three seconds of breathing, and the decision at the nursing home.

"Three seconds," Taylor whispered.

"Mm."

"Just breathing."

"Mm."

Taylor was silent for a while, then said, "The system took fifteen minutes to respond to my breathing."

Alex looked at her.

"It said, it remembered."

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

Taylor leaned on his shoulder and whispered:

"Kim Soon-ja is going back."

"Mm."

"Forty years."

"Mm."

"Irene said she'd wait for her."

Alex didn't speak. He just tightened his grip on her hand.

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

The old coffee cup sat on the desk, reflecting a bit of lamplight.

Taylor suddenly said, "You've used that cup twice now."

"Mm."

"When is the third time?"

Alex looked at the cup for a while.

"Maybe today," he said.

Taylor was startled. "Today?"

"Mm."

He stood up, walked into the study, took 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 then slowly cool down.

When it was cool 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 supposed to be 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.

"Those three seconds of breathing," she whispered, "I want to keep them."

"Keep them."

"That fifteen-minute response, I want to keep that too."

"Keep it."