From American Internet Celebrity to God Among Men

219: Chapter 219 The First Transmission of MemoriesIn Taylor’s studio, a dozen screens covered half the wall like scales. Each screen pulsed with different parameter curves, spectrograms, and dynamic visualizations representing the core variables of the ”Parameter Flow”—brightness, density, complexity, window offset, and gift probability threshold. They were interconnected, drifting slowly like a school of glowing jellyfish cruising through a digital ocean.

Tonight was the first time Taylor had the entire ”Parameter Flow” system running in its entirety, from a zero state to the scheduled ninety-minute mark. She called it the ”Maiden Voyage of the River.”

Alex sat in the monitoring position in the corner, saying nothing. Taylor took a deep breath and pressed the start button.

Sound was born from absolute silence—not quiet, but silence. Then, the golden ratio ”background field” emerged extremely slowly, like a pulse from deep within the Earth’s crust, low, constant, and imbued with the inevitability of mathematics.

Three minutes. The brightness curve of the background field began to sink at an imperceptible speed, and the timbre became slightly dim and distant.

Seven minutes. The first ”window silence” appeared, lasting exactly three seconds. The ”gift” that returned after the silence was a short segment of a nightingale’s song that had been extremely stretched, losing almost all of its original timbre, leaving only a cold, lingering sound akin to metallic overtones. It appeared and vanished, like the bioluminescence of deep-sea fish—flashing once, then immediately swallowed by the boundless darkness.

Nineteen minutes. The length of the window silence was stretched by the Parameter Flow from three seconds to 3.7 seconds. Upon return, the density parameter of the background field rose slightly, and the timbre became slightly denser and warmer. The gift was the tail end of one of Grandma Lupe’s folk songs, processed into a distant echo.

Thirty-five minutes. The window silence shortened to 2.1 seconds, and the brightness of the background field reached a small peak after its return. The gift was the first three notes of the theme from Bach’s ”Goldberg Variations,” processed by the ”Resonance Chamber” model to sound as if they were coming from across a thick interstellar medium—clear, yet distant.

Fifty-eight minutes. The complexity curve of the background field reached the peak of this run, with multiple layers of texture overlapping and interfering with each other, forming a gorgeous yet dangerous auditory fabric bordering on ”information overload.” The window silence was stretched to five seconds—the longest pause in the entire ninety minutes. At the end of the silence, the gift did not appear.

Waiting. Waiting. The sound did not return.

Then, as the silence continued into the sixth second, the background field re-emerged in a more simplified, restrained form, as if, after a grand storm of thoughts, consciousness had returned to the simplest self-observation.

Eighty-two minutes. All parameters began to slowly return to their initial states. The regularity of the windows became looser, and the probability of the gifts appearing dropped to its lowest. The luster of the background field gradually dimmed, and the density decreased, like the onset of twilight.

Ninety minutes exactly. The background field concluded with an almost inaudible, long sigh, fading into silence. Not an interruption, but a completion.

Taylor did not move for a long time. The parameter curves on the screens stopped pulsing, leaving only the final static image.

She turned her head to look at Alex. She didn’t ask ”How was it?”; she just looked at him.

Alex stood up from the monitoring position, walked over to her, and took her slightly trembling hand.

”It’s alive,” he said. ”It’s not just a piece of music. It’s a living thing that breathes, changes, gets tired, and recovers. You’ve created a life form in terms of sound.”

Taylor’s eyes reddened. Not because of the evaluation, but because she felt it too—during the ninety-minute voyage, she wasn’t just playing a pre-written piece of music; she was accompanying a newborn consciousness as it experienced its first complete ”waking dream,” with its ups and downs, explorations, and drowsiness.

”I found it,” she said softly, her voice choked with emotion. ”The ’delayed light’... it’s exactly like this. It’s not any specific melody, but this ’process of growth’ itself. What I need to write isn’t just a work, but a living system capable of experiencing the entire process of ’reception, guessing, loss, and reconstruction.’”

Alex didn’t speak, just held her hand tightly. Night had fallen over Los Angeles outside the window, and only the faint hum of equipment remained in the studio. But they both knew that something extremely important had truly been born on this night.

Meanwhile, in the activity room of Grandma Lupe’s community, over thirty folding chairs were almost filled.

This wasn’t a formal ”sharing session,” but more like an afternoon gathering of old neighbors. The organizers had only prepared simple coffee and cookies, and the projector was looping old black-and-white photos of the community from fifty years ago. The air was filled with the aroma of coffee and the buzzing of people talking in hushed tones.

The ”Sound Memory Sharing” session began. The project team played the first recording: in the early morning, the sound of the old-fashioned rolling shutter of the corner bakery rising with a clatter, accompanied by the muffled conversation of the shop owner saying good morning to the first customer in Spanish.

An old gentleman sitting in the back row suddenly raised his hand, his voice trembling: ”This is... this is Ramon’s bakery. Every day on my way to school as a child, he would sneak me a freshly baked, slightly burnt roll.” He paused, ”Ramon passed away twenty years ago, and the shop has been closed for nearly ten years. I had almost forgotten what his voice sounded like... but when that shutter clattered, I felt like I could smell the burnt bread again.”

The recording continued: in the afternoon, the muffled folk song hummed by old Jose as he worked in the shoe repair shop on the old commercial street. Several elderly people said ”Ah” at the same time, exchanging glances. An old lady took off her reading glasses to wipe the corner of her eye: ”Jose... his hearing wasn’t good, and he could never sing in tune, but his wife said he loved to sing since he was young, and he never changed his whole life. What was this song called... I can’t think of it right now, but I remember the tune.”

She hummed a few notes softly, and several elderly people nearby joined in. Gradually, a dozen elderly people began to sing that old Mexican folk song about distant ports and waiting sailors, their voices uneven. The pitch was inconsistent, and they couldn’t remember all the lyrics, but the melody itself, like a forgotten river, began to flow again in the murky air of the activity room.

The project team’s recording engineer didn’t interrupt; he quietly recorded this impromptu, collective humming. He knew this was more precious than any ”community soundscape” he had deliberately recorded.

The last recording played was the Spanish blessing Grandma Lupe said in front of the abandoned commercial street, and the folk song she hummed about home and migration.

This time, Grandma Lupe sat in the front row, her back very straight. When her own voice came from the speakers, she clutched her handkerchief tightly, but she didn’t cry. She just looked at the photo of the old street on the projector, now unrecognizable, her lips moving slightly, humming along with herself in the recording.

The playback ended, and the activity room was quiet for a few seconds.

Then, a man in his forties, who had never appeared before the project team, stood up. He said he was Grandma Lupe’s son, had moved away from the community nearly twenty years ago, and was only here today because his mother had insisted.

”I used to think she was too stubborn, always living in the past.” His voice was very low and slightly hoarse, ”But I just heard her talking to those empty shops... I never knew she carried so many words in her heart. I never really listened to her.”

He turned, bowed deeply toward his mother. Grandma Lupe couldn’t hold back anymore; tears rolled down her face, but there was a smile on her lips.

Alex later read the project team’s summary and paused on that page for a long time. He didn’t evaluate the methodology, technical details, or project value. He just thought that tonight, in different corners of the same city, two women of different ages and fields—one created a breathing sound life form using Parameter Flow, and one made a group of strangers collectively hum a forgotten melody with a lifetime of memories—had both completed a profound ”transmission.”

The transmission of creativity.

The transmission of memory.

The transmission of understanding.

This is everything the Weaver cherishes.

After the ”Window Period Special Reproduction Observation Plan” was launched, Team K did not capture any abnormal disturbances similar to that ”0.8-second sigh” in the fifth window. The sixth, seventh, and eighth times—none.

The instruments ran at maximum sensitivity, data analysts took turns staring at the real-time spectrograms, and algorithms repeatedly backtracked to check for any possible noise pollution sources. The result was a smooth, clean, ripple-free ”normal” curve.

During the ninth window period, Alex was in his study, receiving a real-time report from the observation team: ”This window period monitoring is over; no unconfirmed phenomena recorded. Data has been archived, ready to enter the next cycle.”

He replied: ”Received, thank you for your hard work.”

Then he turned off the terminal, walked to the window, and looked south—that was the direction of the Pacific Ocean, and also the direction of that silent beacon.

That 0.8-second ”sigh” might indeed be noise. It might be a slight tremor of the instrument that wasn’t recorded. It might be charged particles blown down by the solar wind by chance. It might be anything, or it might be nothing at all.

But it could also be a greeting.

It could also be a cough.

It could also be a system that had slept for ten thousand years, in its long, incomprehensible dream, having, by pure chance and completely unconsciously, turned over.

And humanity, this group of curious and patient creatures, was, with the most humble posture, aiming radio telescope arrays at the same void in every corner of this blue planet, waiting for the next blurred babble it might never make again.

Alex stood by the window for a long time.

He thought of the first complete breath of the ”sound life form” born tonight. He thought of the light in the eyes of those old people sitting together, piecing together forgotten melodies. He thought of the deep bow of Grandma Lupe’s son.

He said to that distant direction in his heart:

”We will keep listening.”

”Not because we expect an answer.”

”But because listening itself is the way we learn to live with this vast and silent universe.”

”Just like Taylor learned to use ’silence’ as a musical note.”

”Just like those elderly people learned to use broken singing to remember a complete life.”

”Just like Grandma Lupe learned to say deep blessings to scenery destined to fade.”

”These are all things humanity took hundreds of thousands of years to slowly learn—how to gently treat uncertainty, how to patiently listen to silence, how to choose to transmit even across distances that cannot be reached.”

Perhaps that 0.8-second ripple will never reappear.

Perhaps our ”the wind on the mountain peak” will never be captured by any ear.

Perhaps in this galaxy, there really is only us—this group of lonely, thinking, creating, grieving, and blessing lives.

That’s okay too.

We will still create, still bless, and still listen intently in every periodic silence.

Because this is who we are.

The night was deep. Alex turned from the window and walked toward the studio. Taylor had fallen asleep on the mixing console, and the screen still showed the static parameter curves from the end of that ninety-minute ”river” surge. Her face showed exhaustion, but also a serenity that comes after completing a major ritual.

He picked up his coat from the sofa and gently draped it over her.

Outside the window, the galaxy hung low.

This bustling city had finally quieted down as well.