251: Chapter 251 Proof of the Night

Taylor began to organize all of the system's "languages."

It wasn't those gifts, nor the things pieced together with her and Alex's voices. It was the system's own voices—from No. 1 to No. 251, voices she had never put in, never heard, and that had never existed anywhere.

She spent a whole week listening to all the numbered voices again.

No. 1, breathing. No. 2, distant person. No. 3, repetition. No. 4, crying. No. 5, a new kind of sound—like metal vibrating softly, lasting for a long time. No. 6, like water droplets, drop by drop, with longer and longer intervals. No. 7, like wind, but lighter than wind, as if blowing from very far away. No. 8, silence. Ten whole minutes of silence. No. 9, after the silence, a sigh. No. 10, after the sigh, nothing.

All the way to No. 251, which was the fifteen-minute response the system gave after she responded with a breath—four sounds layered together, forming a long, complex, brand-new sound that had never existed before.

She finished listening to No. 251 and sat there, not moving for a long time.

When Alex came in, he saw the notebook in front of her was covered in dense writing.

"What did you write?" he asked.

Taylor flipped to the first page: "Its language."

From No. 1 to No. 251, every number was followed by her notes. They weren't technical analyses, but her feelings when she heard those sounds. After No. 1, it said: "Like just waking up." After No. 2: "Like looking for something." After No. 3: "Like saying the same thing over and over." After No. 4: "Like crying all night." After No. 5: "Like metal remembering." After No. 6: "Like time dripping." After No. 7: "Like the wind asking for directions." After No. 8: "Like not wanting to say anything." After No. 9: "Like a sigh after finishing speaking." After No. 10: "Like still being there after the sigh."

All the way to No. 251, it said: "It's answering me. Using all the languages it has learned."

Alex flipped through the notebook, page by page, looking at it for a long time.

"It said a lot," he finally said.

Taylor nodded. "It's been talking for two years."

"You recorded it all?"

"Everything that could be recorded."

Alex closed the notebook and gave it back to her.

"And now?"

Taylor thought for a moment. "Now, it's waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"Waiting for me to finish recording."

---

The Little Girl sent the eleventh recording.

The title was "Night."

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

For the first twenty minutes, nothing could be heard. Only that extremely light, almost indistinguishable background hum, like the night itself was breathing.

She thought the file was corrupted and turned up the volume, but she still couldn't hear anything.

But she continued to listen.

At the twenty-first minute, a very light insect chirp appeared. It chirped a few times and then stopped.

At the twenty-fifth minute, the sound of wind, very light, as if blowing from very far away.

At the thirtieth minute, another sound—perhaps a distant dog barking, perhaps a night bird, it wasn't clear.

At the thirty-fifth minute, silence. That kind of silence where nothing could be heard again.

At the fortieth minute, another insect chirp. Lighter than the previous one, as if it were about to fall asleep.

At the forty-fifth minute, nothing. Only the background hum.

At the fiftieth minute, the recording ended.

The Young Analyst sat at her workstation, staring at the finished file, not moving for a long time.

Fifty minutes. Fifty minutes of hearing almost nothing. But she had listened to it all.

She sent a text message to that unknown number:

"Fifty minutes, nothing there. But why did I listen to it all?"

A few minutes later, a reply came:

"She said, it's because you know they are there. The insects, the wind, the night birds. You know they exist. That's why you could listen to the end."

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

Because she knew they were there.

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.

She didn't know if they would answer. But she knew they were there.

That was enough.

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

Then she whispered to the folder:

"I know you're there."

---

In the nursing home, it was Kim Soon-ja's last afternoon before leaving.

The sunlight was good, just like usual. Kim Soon-ja placed her hand on the back of Irene's hand, holding it gently.

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

They just sat like that. They didn't speak for a long time.

Then Kim Soon-ja spoke: "I'm leaving tomorrow."

Irene's eyes slowly turned toward her. The light in them was very bright, as bright as the day she had first learned to speak.

Kim Soon-ja continued: "Two months. I'll be back in two months."

Irene didn't speak. But her hand slipped out from under Kim Soon-ja's, turned over with the palm facing up, and then was placed back.

My turn to hold.

Kim Soon-ja's tears fell, dripping onto Irene's hand.

Irene's fingers moved, as if wiping those tears away.

Kim Soon-ja placed her other hand on top as well, both hands cupping Irene's thin, small, palm-up hand.

They just sat like that. Neither spoke. The sunlight shone through the window, stretching their shadows very long.

After a long time, Kim Soon-ja whispered, "Will you wait for me?"

Irene didn't nod. But her hand drew a circle in Kim Soon-ja's palm.

The circle was drawn slowly and completely.

As if to say: I will.

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

Later, she wrote in the records:

"On Kim Soon-ja's last afternoon before leaving, she and Irene did not speak."

"But their hands said a lot."

---

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

Taylor talked about the notebook, the fifty minutes of night, and that last afternoon in the nursing home.

"Fifty minutes," Taylor said softly.

"Mhm."

"Almost nothing can be heard."

"Mhm."

"But she listened to it all."

Alex looked at her.

"Because she knew they were there," Taylor said. "The insects, the wind, the night birds. Knowing they are there is enough to listen to the end."

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 gone."

"Mhm."

"Irene is waiting."

"Mhm."

Taylor was silent for a moment, then said: "The system is waiting, too."

Alex looked at her.

"Waiting for me to finish recording," Taylor said. "Waiting for me to record all those languages. Waiting for me to say, 'I've finished recording.'"

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, "That cup, you've used it twice now."

"Mhm."

"When is the third time?"

Alex looked at the cup for a while.

"Maybe today," he said.

Taylor was taken aback. "Today?"

"Mhm."

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 coffee slowly steam and then slowly cool.

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.

"Same as 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 notebook," she whispered, "I want to finish writing it."

"Finish it."

"That fifty minutes of night, I want to finish listening to it, too."

"Listen to it all."

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