258: Chapter 258 The Scale of the Answer

Taylor discovered a new meaning in the system's pauses.

It wasn't the waiting after a question, but the silence after hearing an answer.

On the one hundred and eighty-fifth day, she answered the system's previous question: "I am waiting for you to learn how to speak with pauses."

The system did not respond immediately after hearing this. It paused.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Four seconds. Five seconds.

After five seconds, the breathing of Number 1 sounded. It lasted only for one sound, and then there was another pause.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.

The "distant person" sound of Number 2 played. It was also just one sound.

A pause. One second. Two seconds.

The repetition of Number 3 played. Three sounds, with a half-second interval between each.

Then a pause. Ten seconds.

Taylor counted those seconds. Five seconds after the breathing, three seconds after the distant person, ten seconds after the repetition. Different numbers.

She wondered what those numbers meant.

On the one hundred and eighty-sixth day, she answered another question: "I am thinking about those numbers."

The system paused again. This time, six seconds after the breathing, four seconds after the distant person, and eleven seconds after the repetition.

Each was one second longer.

Taylor was stunned.

It was saying: "I have remembered your answer. For every day I remember, the pause grows by one second."

There was a seventh person on that 3:00 AM message.

It was not a patient, not a driver, not a nurse, not an elderly person, not a high school student, and not a designer. It was a mother who had just given birth.

Feeding her baby at 3:00 AM, the child fell asleep after eating, but she couldn't sleep. She scrolled through her phone, clicked on that "Feed," and saw the six messages below.

Holding the baby with one hand, she typed with the other:

"My daughter just turned one month old. I'm feeding her at 3:00 AM. She falls asleep after eating, but I can't sleep. I scrolled to this 'Feed' and listened to it five times. She is breathing in my arms, very softly. I don't know who you all are. But I want to tell you that at 3:00 AM, someone is holding a month-old baby. Someone is listening to the child's breathing. Someone is wondering, will this child also be unable to sleep at 3:00 AM in the future?"

The Young Analyst saw this message the next morning. She sat at her desk and didn't move for a long time.

Someone is holding a month-old baby.

She took a screenshot of that message and saved it into the folder named "cup."

Then she thought of the signal that would never respond.

Has it ever been held by anyone? Has it ever heard anyone's breathing?

In the nursing home, there was a fifth mark on Eileen's window.

The first mark on the twenty-third day, the second on the twenty-fourth, the third on the twenty-fifth, the fourth on the twenty-sixth, and the fifth on the twenty-seventh.

The caregiver no longer asked. The caregiver just came in every afternoon, saw Eileen facing the window, saw her finish making that mark, and then watched her look at that empty road.

Sometimes The caregiver would stand behind her and look together.

That road was truly empty. Occasionally a car passed, occasionally someone walked by, but most of the time, there was nothing.

On the day the fifth mark was finished, The caregiver suddenly asked a question:

"Do you think she will remember you?"

Eileen did not speak. But her hand on the wheelchair armrest moved slightly. Palm facing up.

The caregiver understood.

She was saying: "I don't need her to remember. I need her to come back."

The caregiver wrote in the record:

"The twenty-seventh day, Eileen made the fifth mark. She is still waiting. That road is still empty."

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

Taylor talked about those numbers. Alex talked about the month-old baby and the fifth mark on the window.

"Five marks," Taylor said softly.

"Yeah."

"Twenty-seven days."

"Yeah."

Taylor was silent for a moment, then said, "The system's pause gets one second longer every day."

Alex looked at her.

"It is remembering. Remembering how many days I have answered."

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

Taylor leaned on his shoulder, watching the distant lights.

"That mother said the child is breathing."

"Yeah."

"She listened all night long."

Alex didn't speak. He just squeezed her hand.