From American Internet Celebrity to God Among Men

228: Chapter 228 A Follow-up Visit to the Cemetery and Strangers at the Annual MeetingTaylor began recording the system’s ”responses” every day.

It wasn’t a recording in the scientific sense; there were no parameter screenshots or spectrum analyses. It was just an ordinary notebook where she wrote down the ”special” gifts she heard each night—fragments that clearly used her a cappella material or seemed to echo her paraphrasing exercises from the day before.

The gift on the seventh day: Her a cappella singing was stretched into an extremely long background layer, with fragments of Bach floating above it, like someone far away repeating a line she once sang at a very slow pace.

The gift on the twelfth day: Her a cappella singing was mixed with Grandma Lupe’s ballad, their rhythms offset by half a beat, creating a strange polyphony that sounded like a dialogue yet also like they were talking past each other.

The gift on the eighteenth day: Only the last note of her a cappella singing appeared, repeatedly delayed and layered to form ripples spreading outward circle by circle, lasting for nearly a minute before completely vanishing.

“It’s learning from me,” Taylor said to Alex, her tone carrying something indescribable. “It’s not imitating. It’s learning. It takes what I give it, takes it apart, reorganizes it, and gives it back to me in different ways. Every time it gives something back, it’s different.”

Alex flipped through her notebook, looking at the dates and scribbled descriptions. “What do you think it wants to do?”

Taylor thought for a long time. “It’s not about what it wants to do. It’s just that this is the only way it can be. It has no purpose, only rules. I give it a piece of material, and its rules will keep using it, testing it, and putting it together with other things to see what happens. This process itself is its mode of existence.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m watching,” Taylor said. “Watching how it uses my voice. Watching it turn my voice into a part of itself. Watching it speak with my voice—speaking its own words.”

She closed the notebook and looked at the pulsing Parameter Flow on the screen.

“This isn’t a dialogue. This is... the mutual penetration of the observer and the observed. I am observing it, and I am being observed by it. I use my voice to observe it, and it uses its way to observe my voice. Neither of us knows what the other is saying, but we are both continuing in our own way.”

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The man who had received the phone call for the old lady sent another letter.

This time it wasn’t sent to the project team, but directly to the community, addressed to ”The Korean-speaking Grandmother.” Inside the envelope was another photo, but this time it wasn’t of a tombstone; it was of two people.

In the photo, the man in his fifties stood next to an elderly woman. The elderly woman sat in a wheelchair, her hair completely white and her face a mass of wrinkles, but her eyes were looking at the camera, and there was a hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth.

The note read:

“Respected Lady:”

“I took your recording to my mother’s sister—my only aunt. She lives in a nursing home and hasn’t been out for eight years; she hardly recognizes anyone anymore. I played your recording for her.”

“The first time she heard it, there was no reaction. The second time, her lips moved. The third time, she said a sentence in Korean. I didn’t understand it. But the nursing home’s caregiver understood. She said: ’Big sister is calling me.’”

“My aunt’s big sister was my mother. She passed away fifty years ago.”

“This photo is of my aunt and me. It’s been a long time since she looked at a camera. That day, she looked at the lens and smiled. The caregiver said she hadn’t smiled in three years.”

“I don’t know how to thank you. I have no money and nothing to give you. But if you are willing, I can come to see you. We don’t even have to talk. I’ll just sit.”

“Your voice has given me back a relative.”

The old lady finished reading the letter and handed it to the Interpreter. When the Interpreter finished reading, her eyes were red.

The old lady looked at her and said calmly, “Tell him, next Saturday at three in the afternoon, that bench in the Community Park. I go there every day to sit.”

She paused and added, “Tell him to bring a photo of his aunt. I want to see her.”

---

Team K’s fifth anonymous log appeared a week before the annual meeting.

It wasn’t written by that Young Analyst. It was by someone who had never written a log before.

“This is my tenth year on this project.”

“I have never written for this log. I used to think it was unnecessary, that this was for future generations, and that what I’m doing now, future generations don’t need to know.”

“But at last year’s annual meeting, I sat in the last row of the conference room and heard them read the fourth log. When they got to the line ’He saved me three years,’ I saw someone in the front row bow their head and wipe their eyes. I didn’t know that person, but I suddenly remembered that ten years ago when I first joined the project, there was also someone I didn’t know who helped save me three years.”

“That person didn’t write a log. They might have already forgotten about it. But I remember.”

“So I wanted to write one this year. Not for the people of 2150, but for the person sitting in the last row at next year’s annual meeting. If they read this, I want to tell them: Someone is watching what you are doing now. Someone will remember the time you are saving now.”

“You don’t need to know who I am. Just knowing someone is here is enough.”

On the day of the annual meeting, when this log was projected onto the screen, the conference room was even quieter than last year.

No one looked down at their notebooks. No one pretended to take notes. Everyone watched the screen, watching the words roll up line by line.

It rolled to the last line: “Just knowing someone is here is enough.”

After it finished rolling, only the white background remained on the screen.

The silence lasted for about ten seconds.

Then someone started to clap. It wasn’t the warm, collective applause that requires everyone to join in; it was sparse, just a few people clapping a few times on their own. It stopped as soon as it started. No one spoke.

But that silence was different from the silence before.

The Young Analyst sat in the corner, and this time she didn’t lower her head. She looked at the screen, and then at the people she didn’t know, but who were sitting together.

It wasn’t raining outside. The sunlight was beautiful.

She suddenly felt that this conference room was a little warmer than last year.

---

That night, Alex opened the ”Listening Map” again.

He clicked on the Korean-American Grandmother’s voice, listening to the line ”I understood for the first time, and I cried.” Then he listened to the newly added line ”I can’t hear very clearly now, but I still remember.”

He clicked on the man’s voice—he had also uploaded a segment later. It was very short, only a dozen seconds, of him slowly reciting in stiff Korean: ”Big sister is calling me.” After finishing, there were a few seconds of silence, followed by a very soft sound that was like a laugh yet also like a sigh.

He clicked on Taylor’s ”Paraphrasing Exercise Seventh Time”—that a cappella segment. He had heard it many times, but every time he listened, it felt different. This time he heard more things: the gaps in memory she filled with her own voice, the places where she couldn’t remember the rhythm and so created her own, and that less-than-a-second breath after she finished singing but before the recording ended.

Then he clicked on a point of light he had never clicked before.

It was a newly added, untitled fragment. Only three seconds long. It was a very soft, intermittent hum, like someone humming to themselves without knowing they were being recorded.

The accompanying text was only one line:

“System-generated ’Dream’ No. 47. I paraphrased it with my own voice. This is the 47th time.”

It was Taylor. She had uploaded another segment.

Alex finished listening. Then he listened again.

Outside the window, the Los Angeles night was very quiet. Occasionally, a siren—indistinguishable between a fire truck or an ambulance—wafted from the distance: long-short-long-short, long-short-long-short.

He suddenly thought, if one day there were enough points of light on this map to cover the entire city, enough so that everyone could find a sound related to themselves—

Then what would this city become?

He didn’t know.

But he knew that version of it was worth the wait.