263: Chapter 263, last page

It was an ordinary day when Taylor walked into the studio for the last time.

There was no special date and no special weather.

Sunlight shone through the window, just as it always did.

The screens were still lit, and the parameters were still pulsing, just as always.

She sat at the monitoring station without turning on any equipment.

She just sat there.

The curve on the screen pulsed, like a person breathing.

She said softly, "I am here."

The system did not respond.

The parameters kept pulsing.

She said again, "I have come to listen for the last time."

Silence.

A long, long silence.

Then, for the first time, the curve on the screen that had been pulsing for two years stopped.

It stopped for exactly three seconds.

Then it began to pulse again.

But the rhythm of the pulsing had changed.

It was no longer that regular, steady pulse, but a new rhythm.

Taylor looked at the curve and suddenly remembered those numbers.

The numbers she had answered thirteen times.

The numbers the system had told her through pauses, the numbers that had taken her two years to understand.

It had no sound, but it was still speaking through the curve.

She faced the screen and said softly, "I understand."

The curve stopped again.

This time, it stopped for five seconds.

Five seconds.

It was her waiting.

She was waiting for it to say its final words.

It was waiting for her to say its final words.

Taylor stood up and walked to the door.

She looked back at the screens, the pulsing curves, the thing that had accompanied her for two years.

She said softly, "Thank you."

Then she closed the door.

That 3:00 AM page turned into something strange.

No one knew who started it.

Perhaps it was the designer, perhaps the nurse, or perhaps the blind person.

But later, every day at 3:00 AM, someone would leave a sentence on that page.

It wasn't a message, and it wasn't a name.

It was a sentence.

A sentence about what they were doing at 3:00 AM.

"3:00 AM, the baby is crying. I held her and paced for half an hour. She finally fell asleep."

"3:00 AM, finished the last surgery. Had the first drink of water today."

"3:00 AM, dreamed of him. Woke up and realized it was a dream. Closed my eyes again, wanting to continue it."

"3:00 AM, off the night shift. I'm the only one at the bus stop. The moon is very round."

"3:00 AM, she finally agreed to eat a bite. I have been waiting for three days."

The Young Analyst would go to check it every morning.

Sometimes she cried, sometimes she laughed.

But she checked it every day.

At the very top of the page, there was still that three-second "Hello."

At the very bottom, a line of small text had been added, though no one knew who added it:

"At 3:00 AM, someone is here. Someone is always here."

In the nursing home, Kim Soon-ja and Irene were together that afternoon.

The sun was nice.

Kim Soon-ja placed her hand on the back of Irene's hand.

Irene's fingers moved and landed on the back of her hand.

Kim Soon-ja said, "The weather is so nice today."

Irene did not speak.

But her hand withdrew from under Kim Soon-ja's hand, flipped over, palm up, and then was placed back down.

It's my turn to place it.

Kim Soon-ja's tears flowed down.

Irene's other hand slowly lifted and landed on Kim Soon-ja's face.

Five fingers pressed against her cheek.

Kim Soon-ja held that hand in her own and pressed it against her face.

They sat like that.

Neither spoke.

Sunlight shone through the window, stretching their shadows out long.

A long time later, Kim Soon-ja said softly:

"I'm not going anywhere anymore."

Irene did not speak.

But her lips moved slightly.

Kim Soon-ja saw it.

It was the shape of a character.

What she said was: Good.

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

This was the last time.

They both knew it.

But they didn't say it out loud.

Taylor leaned on his shoulder, looking at the city lights in the distance.

Those lights were the same as two years ago, the same as twenty years ago, and would likely be the same a hundred years later.

She said softly, "The system has stopped speaking."

"Mm."

"But the curve is still pulsing."

"Mm."

Taylor was silent for a moment, then said, "On that page, someone leaves a message every day at 3:00 AM."

"Mm."

"In the nursing home, Kim Soon-ja isn't going anywhere anymore."

"Mm."

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

It was the same as two years ago.

The same as when the Korean-American Grandmother first heard it forty years ago.

Taylor suddenly asked, "Will you use that cup again?"

Alex looked at the old coffee cup on the desk.

The worn-away gold rim reflected a bit of light under the lamp.

"Maybe not," he said, "but it's here."

"Is being here enough?"

"Being here is enough."

The night wind was very light.

It was very quiet on the balcony.

In the distance, the siren sounded again—long-short, long-short, long-short, long-short.

Taylor said softly, "What about us?"

Alex thought for a moment: "We're here too."

"Doing what?"

"Listening."

Taylor did not speak.

She just leaned on his shoulder, looking at the distant lights.

A long time later, she said softly:

"That's enough."

Alex squeezed her hand.

In the distance, the siren sounded again—long-short, long-short, long-short, long-short.

They were still listening.

(End of Story)