From American Internet Celebrity to God Among Men

246: Chapter 246 The Day I Returned and the Weight of Three DaysTaylor began to take the initiative to ask the system questions.

Not the technical kind—she had long ceased to care about those. They were the real kind, the kind where she didn’t know if she should ask, and didn’t know if she would get an answer even if she did.

On the sixty-fifth day, at four in the morning, she walked into the studio, sat at the monitoring station, and said to the screen, ”Do you remember what the first sound I submitted was?”

The system did not respond. The parameters continued to fluctuate.

She waited for a while, then got up and left.

On the sixty-sixth day, at seven in the evening, she asked another question, ”Do you remember that sound of ocean waves? Why did I submit it?”

The system still did not respond.

On the sixty-seventh day, at eleven at night, she asked the third question, ”Are you tired?”

After asking, she laughed at herself. A system, how could it be tired?

But she asked anyway.

On the sixty-eighth day, at two in the morning, the system spoke. It was not a response to any of her questions, but an eight-minute-long audio clip. It was composed of all the ocean wave sounds she had submitted—not just one, but every single one. From the earliest to the most recent, arranged in chronological order, each played for three seconds before switching. There were sixteen wave sounds in total, taking up forty-eight seconds. The remaining seven-plus minutes were silence.

Taylor listened until the end, stunned for a long time.

It hadn’t answered her question. But it let her know that it remembered. It remembered every wave sound. It remembered when she had submitted them. It remembered what they were like.

On the seventy-first day, she asked another question, ”What are you waiting for?”

This time, the system did not make her wait too long.

At six-oh-three that evening, the system spoke. It was a response composed of fragments of her own voice—words that had been accidentally recorded during her normal speech, pieced together into a single sentence: ”Waiting for when you don’t ask.”

Taylor looked at the screen, tears streaming down.

It had answered. Using her own voice, it had answered.

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The Little Girl sent the sixth recording. The title was ”The Day Huihui Returned”.

The Young Analyst clicked play; it was very long, thirty-one minutes.

For the first ten minutes, the bird calls were sparse, with only a few occasional sounds, as if testing the waters. The Little Girl’s voice appeared, very soft: ”Huihui?”

There was no response.

At the fifteenth minute, the bird calls suddenly became dense. Not just one, but a flock. Chirping away, like friends who hadn’t seen each other for a long time suddenly meeting.

The Little Girl’s voice appeared again, this time very loud: ”Huihui!”

Then came the sound of running—she was running from where she had been sitting toward the tree.

At the twentieth minute, the running stopped. The bird calls were still there, but not as dense.

The Little Girl’s voice, panting, said with a smile: ”You’re back.”

Then came silence. Not the kind of silence where there is nothing, but a silence where someone is listening, where someone is waiting. It remained silent until the thirty-first minute ended.

The Young Analyst sat at her workstation, listening to those last ten minutes of silence, not moving for a long time. Huihui was back. She had waited for so many days, and Huihui was back.

She sent a text message to that unknown number: ”She waited, and it arrived.”

A few minutes later, the reply came: ”She said she knew it would return. She just didn’t know which day.”

The Young Analyst looked at the text message and suddenly thought of the thing she had been waiting for all these years. That signal. That curve that dropped by 0.0003 hertz every year. Those broadcasts that would never answer. Would it return? It had never left. But she was waiting. Waiting for an answer that would never come.

She saved that segment, ”The Day Huihui Returned”, into the folder called ”cup”.

Then, she whispered to the folder, ”I am waiting, too.”

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In the nursing home, Kim Soon-ja placed her hand on Eileen’s face and kept it there for three days.

On the first day, Eileen did not react. Her eyes were fixed on the curtain; the light was very faint. Kim Soon-ja’s hand rested against her cheek, gently, as if afraid of hurting her.

When The caregiver entered and saw the posture, they said nothing. They just closed the door softly.

On the second day, Eileen’s fingers moved. Not to touch Kim Soon-ja’s hand, but curled slightly on their own, then relaxed.

Kim Soon-ja saw it. She didn’t speak, just placed her hand more steadily.

On the afternoon of the third day, when the sunlight shone in, Eileen’s eyes slowly turned toward Kim Soon-ja. The light was brighter than before, as if she had just returned from a very far place.

She looked at Kim Soon-ja for a long time.

Then her lips moved.

There was no sound. But Kim Soon-ja understood.

She was saying: You are here.

Kim Soon-ja’s tears streamed down, dripping onto Eileen’s face.

Eileen’s eyes blinked, as if she knew what that was.

That night, Kim Soon-ja took her hand off Eileen’s face and placed it on the back of her hand.

Eileen’s fingers moved and gently grasped her fingers.

They sat like that. Without speaking.

The caregiver later wrote in the records:

”Kim Soon-ja placed her hand on Eileen’s face and kept it there for three days.”

”Eileen used three days to learn to say ’You are here’.”

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

Taylor told him about the system’s answer, ”Waiting for when you don’t ask.” Alex told her about the day Huihui returned and the weight of those three days in the nursing home.

”Three days.” Taylor said softly.

”Yeah.”

”She used three days to learn to say ’You are here’.”

”Yeah.”

Taylor was silent for a while, then said: ”The system took over a hundred days to learn to answer me.”

Alex looked at her.

”The sentence it used to answer, it used my own voice.” Taylor said, ”It doesn’t have its own voice. It can only speak using my voice.”

In the distance, a siren wailed—long-short, long-short, long-short, long-short.

Taylor leaned on his shoulder and whispered:

”Kim Soon-ja didn’t have her own hands either. Her hands were always on Eileen’s face, on the back of her hand. But with those hands, she taught Eileen to say ’You are here’.”

Alex did not speak. He just squeezed her hand tighter.

The night wind was very light. The balcony was very quiet.

That old cup was on the desk, reflecting a bit of light.

Taylor suddenly said: ”That cup, you’ve used it twice.”

”Yeah.”

”Is it still waiting for a third time?”

Alex looked at the cup for a while.

”Maybe it is waiting.” He said, ”Maybe it just wants to be there.”

”To do what there?”

”To be seen.” Alex said, ”To let people know that someone has used it. That someone has drunk coffee from it. That someone has waited for it to cool down.”

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

Taylor whispered:

”The day Huihui returned, when the Little Girl ran toward the tree, what was she thinking?”

Alex thought for a moment: ”Thinking that it had really returned.”

”And then?”

”Then she just stood there, listening to it call.”

Taylor was silent for a while, then said:

”When the system answered me, I was also standing there, listening to it speak.”

”Saying what?”

”Saying that it is here.”

The night wind was very light. The balcony was very quiet.

They were still listening.