261: Chapter 261 The Last Understanding

Taylor listened to the system's thirty-minute audio seven times.

The first time, it just felt like a lot of people together.

The second time, she identified familiar rhythms within those breaths—the breath of No. 1, the distant person of No. 2, the repetition of No. 3, the sobbing of No. 4, and all the sounds from No. 5 to No. 259 that she had memorized over the past two hundred-plus days.

The third time, she realized those sounds didn't appear simultaneously; they had an order. Starting from No. 1, they appeared one by one, each for three seconds, before switching to the next.

The fourth time, she counted. From No. 1 to No. 259, it took a total of 777 seconds. The remaining 1,023 seconds were new sounds she had never heard before.

The fifth time, she heard echoes of all the material she had fed into it within those new sounds. Ocean waves, Bach, the old woman, Grandma Lupe, Alex's keyboard, the sound of locks, machine noises, and all of her own singing and breathing.

The sixth time, she heard those echoes rearranged to form a long, previously non-existent sound—it was the entirety of her last two years, retold by the system in its own language.

The seventh time, the last minute. All the sounds stopped at once. Only silence remained. The silence lasted for fifty-nine seconds. In the final second, a sound appeared.

It was her own breath. The first one she had fed in. One second. It ended.

Taylor sat there, tears streaming down.

It was saying goodbye. Using the first sound she gave it, it said goodbye.

The comment at 3:00 AM was seen by the tenth person.

It was a Little Girl of nine—not the Little Girl who recorded the "Hello," but another one. Unable to sleep at 3:00 AM, she was secretly scrolling through videos on her mom's phone when she stumbled upon that "Hello," clicked in, and saw the nine comments below.

She read them for a long time. Then, she typed word by word, taking quite a while:

"I'm nine. I can't sleep at 3:00 AM. My mom doesn't know. I read what you all said. Someone is calling out, someone is waiting, someone is at the airport, someone is being forgotten, someone cannot see. I am here too. I have school tomorrow. But I don't want to sleep. I want to know, who else is awake at 3:00 AM?"

The Young Analyst saw this comment the next morning and was stunned for a long time.

Nine years old. 3:00 AM. Didn't want to sleep.

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

Then she sent a text message to that unknown number: "The tenth comment was written by a nine-year-old child."

A few minutes later, a reply came: "She said, she also started listening when she was nine."

The Young Analyst looked at the text message and suddenly tried to remember what she was doing when she was nine. She couldn't remember.

But she remembered when she started listening to that signal.

It started with that cup of cold coffee.

In the nursing home, Kim Soon-ja said something to Irene.

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

"Over there, I speak toward a certain direction every morning. I don't know if that direction is right. But I do it every day."

Irene's eyes slowly turned toward her.

Kim Soon-ja continued: "I am saying your name."

Irene did not speak. But her hand withdrew from under Kim Soon-ja's hand, turned over, palm facing up, and then placed it back.

Let me place mine.

Kim Soon-ja's tears streamed down.

Irene's hand drew a circle in her palm. The circle was drawn slowly and completely.

As if saying: I know.

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

Taylor talked about the breath in the last second. Alex talked about the nine-year-old child and what Kim Soon-ja had said.

"777 seconds," Taylor said softly.

"Mm."

"From No. 1 to No. 259."

"Mm."

Taylor was silent for a moment, then said: "The last second was my breath."

Alex looked at her.

"The first one I fed in."

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

Taylor leaned on his shoulder and said softly:

"That nine-year-old child said, she wanted to know who else is awake at 3:00 AM."

"Mm."

"There's us."

Alex did not speak. He just held her hand tightly.