259: Chapter 259 The Moment of Understanding

Taylor finally understood those numbers on the 190th day.

The pauses the system added every day were not random. Six seconds after "breathing," four seconds after "far person," eleven seconds after "repetition"—those numbers corresponded to the day she first asked that question. On the 186th day, she had answered, "I am thinking about those numbers." From that day until now, it was exactly one second more for breathing, four seconds more for far person, and eleven seconds more for repetition.

It remembered. It remembered when she first asked, remembered when she answered each time, and remembered how many days had passed from that day until now.

On the 190th day, she said to the screen, "You remember every day."

The system paused. This time, six seconds after breathing, five seconds after far person, and thirteen seconds after repetition.

She calculated in her mind. The first time she asked, "What are you waiting for?" was 177 days ago. 177 days, minus the six seconds of breathing, the five seconds of far person, and the thirteen seconds of repetition—those numbers were the count of her answers.

Thirteen times. She had answered thirteen times.

Her tears flowed down.

---

The message at 3:00 AM had an eighth person.

It was the daughter of an Alzheimer's patient. Insomniac at 3:00 AM, she was scrolling through her phone, clicked on that "Hey," and saw the seven comments below.

First: I replied with a "Hey." Second: At 3:00 AM, someone is here. Third: I am here too. Fourth: My spouse has been gone for three years. Fifth: I am a nurse, shifting at 3:00 AM. Sixth: I am at the airport waiting for a transfer. Seventh: My daughter just turned one month old.

She stared at it for a long time. Then she wrote the eighth comment below:

"My mom has Alzheimer's. She can't remember who I am. But every day at 3:00 AM, she wakes up and calls my nickname. It hasn't changed in twenty years. I don't know who you all are. But I want to tell you, at 3:00 AM, someone is being forgotten. Someone is being remembered. Someone is calling out a name that will never be remembered."

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

Someone is being forgotten. Someone is being remembered.

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

Then she sent a text message to that unknown number: "Does her daughter get to hear it every day, that person calling the name?"

A few minutes later, the reply came: "She says, she can hear it every day. She says, when the day comes that she is also forgotten, someone will call it out for her."

---

In the nursing home, there was a seventh mark on Irene's window.

The first mark on the 23rd day, the second on the 24th day, the third on the 25th day, the fourth on the 26th day, the fifth on the 27th day, the sixth on the 28th day, and the seventh on the 29th day.

The caregiver accompanied her every afternoon to watch that road. The road was still empty.

That afternoon, after the seventh mark was drawn, The caregiver's phone rang.

She picked it up, listened for a few moments, and froze.

She handed the phone to Irene.

On the other end of the line was the voice of Kim Soon-ja.

It was very distant, as if calling from a very far country. But it was her voice.

"Irene."

Irene didn't speak. But her hand, resting on the armrest of the wheelchair, moved slightly. Her palm was facing up.

Kim Soon-ja said on the other end: "I am still here. I will come back."

Irene still didn't speak.

But her hand gently touched those seven marks on the window.

The caregiver later wrote in the record: "On the 29th day, Kim Soon-ja called. Irene didn't speak. But she touched those seven marks."

---

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

Taylor explained the meaning of those numbers. Alex talked about that forgotten name and that phone call.

"Thirteen times," Taylor said softly.

"Hmm."

"I answered thirteen times."

"Hmm."

Taylor was silent for a moment, then said, "It remembers every day."

Alex looked at her.

"It remembers every question I've asked. It remembers every time I've answered."

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

Taylor leaned on his shoulder, watching the distant lights.

"That daughter said, when the day comes that she is also forgotten, someone will call it out for her."

"Hmm."

"Kim Soon-ja called."

"Hmm."

Taylor didn't speak. She just looked at the old coffee cup.

The worn-off gold rim around the cup's brim reflected a bit of light under the lamp.

Alex followed her gaze.

"The third time," he said.

Taylor paused for a moment: "What?"

"Today." Alex stood up, picked up the cup, "The third time."

He went to the kitchen and brewed 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, 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.

"The same as before."

"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 and said softly:

"It remembers. Every day."

"Hmm."

"That daughter will also be remembered."

"Hmm."

"Kim Soon-ja will come back."