From American Internet Celebrity to God Among Men

226: Chapter 226 The Echoes of the Map and the Readers of the LogTaylor’s Voyage of Echoes began with a very short experiment.

She didn’t directly adjust the parameters, she didn’t add new material, and she didn’t even open the system’s main operating interface. She simply sat at the monitoring station, repeatedly listening to a segment of a ”dream” recently generated by the system—a snippet fused from the sound of Alex Su’s typing, the Korean-American Grandmother’s line ”I heard it for the first time and cried,” the sound of a door lock, and her own breathing.

She listened to it a dozen times. Then, she did something she had never done before.

She used her own voice to recount that ”dream.”

It wasn’t an imitation or a restoration; it was listening to it and then re-singing it in her own way—using her human voice, without any effects units or electronic processing, just a cappella. She sang fitfully, unable to remember the exact rhythm in some places, and filling in the gaps in her memory in her own way. After singing it once, she would listen to the original again, sing again, listen again, and sing again.

She spent the entire afternoon doing this.

When Alex Su came in that evening, she was on her seventh or eighth rendition, and her voice was already a bit hoarse.

”What are you doing?”

Taylor stopped and took a sip of water. ”Learning.”

”Learning what?”

”Learning how it speaks.” She pointed to the static parameter curves on the screen. ”I want to know if I can say the things it says using only myself, without parameters.”

Alex Su sat down beside her. ”Can you?”

Taylor thought for a moment. ”I can say part of it. But not all. Some things can only be said with parameters, and some things can only be said with a human voice. They are different.”

”Then why bother learning?”

”Because I want to know what those materials it hears—the grandmother’s voice, your keyboard, my breathing—become within it. By recounting it with my own voice, I can get a little closer to its ’way of hearing.’”

Alex Su was silent for a moment. ”And what about it? How does it ’hear’ you?”

Taylor looked at the screen and smiled. ”I don’t know. But I think it’s learning too.”

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Three weeks after the Listening Map went online, the project team received a handwritten letter.

The letter was sent from a community they had never set foot in. The sender was a White Gentleman in his seventies, with handwriting as neat as print. The letter was very short:

”To the sound diary Project Team:”

”I clicked on your map on the library website. The first thing I heard was a segment in Korean. I didn’t understand it, but that old lady’s voice reminded me of my mother. She passed away when I was very young, and I haven’t thought of her voice in a long time. I had insomnia that night, not because I was sad, but because I realized I had forgotten.”

”I have nothing I can contribute to your sound diary. I haven’t lived my life as much of a listener. But I wanted to tell you that the Korean sentence I didn’t understand reminded me that there was once someone in this world who loved me in a language I didn’t understand. Thank you.”

The signature was a name and a phone number, with a final line: ”If that old lady is willing, could she give me a call? No need to talk, just let me hear her voice.”

The project team translated the letter for the Korean-American Grandmother. After hearing it, she remained silent for a long time.

Then she said, ”Give me the phone.”

The Interpreter was worried. ”What are you going to say?”

The grandmother shook her head. ”Nothing. Just let him hear my voice. He doesn’t need to understand.”

On the day the call was made, the project team’s young Interpreter was present, responsible for dialing and using the speakerphone. The phone rang three times before someone picked up. It was an old man’s voice, saying a slightly nervous ”Hello.”

The grandmother spoke a sentence in Korean into the phone.

It wasn’t any sentence from her notebook. It was a very short phrase, sounding like a greeting yet also like a mutter to herself. After speaking, she waited for two seconds, then gently hung up.

The Interpreter didn’t have time to ask what that sentence meant. The grandmother had already stood up and was slowly walking back to her room.

Later, the Interpreter asked another Korean elder in the community. After hearing it, the person was silent for a moment and said:

”That was what her mother used to say to wake her up when she was a child. It roughly means, ’If you’re awake, get up; the sun is waiting for you.’”

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Team K’s anonymous journal folder had its first ”reader” at the end of the fifth year.

It wasn’t a person from the future one hundred and twenty-five years later. It was someone from the present.

A Young Analyst who had just joined the project team two years ago accidentally discovered the existence of this folder while working overtime. She asked a senior, who said, ”Oh, that? It’s voluntary, not mandatory, and nobody really reads it.”

”Can I read it?” she asked.

The senior thought for a moment. ”Theoretically... it’s for the people of 2150. But since it can be opened now, I suppose no one’s stopping you.”

She spent three nights reading through those three anonymous journal entries.

The first entry: 3:17 AM, raining, the coffee’s cold.

The second entry: It’s raining again today. Cold coffee really doesn’t taste good.

The third entry: I think I’m starting to understand, but it took five years.

On the night she finished the third entry, it was also raining outside. She sat at her computer, hesitated for a long time, and then created a new document.

She wrote the fourth journal entry.

”I don’t know if I should write here. This folder is for the people of 2150, but I want to write now.”

”I’ve finished reading the first three entries. The author of the first one should be retired by now. The author of the second might still be on the project, or maybe they’ve left. The author of the third said, ’it took five years.’ I don’t know who he is, but I want to tell him: I understood in just two years. Not because I’m smarter than him, but because I read the words he wrote. He saved me three years.”

”If someone in 2150 reads this entry, I want to tell you: I don’t know any of the people who wrote the first three. But on this rainy night, I feel like we are sitting in the same room. The coffee they brewed went cold, and mine has gone cold too.”

”Does this count as the ’Common Frequency’ you talk about?”

She didn’t sign her name. But she saved the document into that folder.

The next day, she sent an email to the project lead with only one sentence:

”More people should know about that anonymous journal folder.”

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Alex Su opened the Listening Map during a bout of insomnia in the early morning hours.

He clicked on the points of light one by one, from the very first to the most recently added. He heard the Korean-American Grandmother’s ”I heard it for the first time and cried” and ”I can’t hear very clearly now, but I still remember.” He heard the ice cream truck from the fourth-grade boy two years ago. He heard the sound of an oil pan that a mother had hesitated for a long time before uploading. He heard the recording from the younger sister: ”My brother isn’t recording anymore, so I’m going to record until high school.” He heard that White Gentleman—who, after receiving the call from the grandmother—had also uploaded a recording. It was a poem he recited himself, saying his mother used to read it to coax him to sleep, and he had just remembered it word by word from over seventy years of memory.

He heard Taylor.

It was something Taylor had secretly uploaded a few days ago without telling anyone. A very short a cappella vocal without any explanation. Only the title: ”Recounting Practice, Seventh Time.”

Alex Su recognized it. It was the system-generated ”dream”—the segment fused from his keyboard sounds, the grandmother’s sentence, Taylor’s own breathing, and that stranger girl’s door lock. Taylor had recounted it with her own voice.

He finished listening. Then he put on his headphones and listened to it again.

Outside the window, the city at four in the morning was very quiet. From the distance, a siren occasionally drifted in, indistinguishable whether it was a fire truck or an ambulance—long-short-long-short, long-short-long-short.

He suddenly remembered the fourth journal entry written by the Young Analyst: ”On this rainy night, I feel like we are sitting in the same room.”

He had that same feeling now.

Taylor was asleep in the bedroom. The Korean-American Grandmother was asleep in her own room. The woman who had written in her notebook for forty years, and the woman who had just learned to recount the system’s voice, and the man listening to the map at four in the morning, and the people who had ordered coffee but forgotten to drink it—

They were all sitting in the same room.

Sound connected them all.

He turned off the map, took off his headphones, and got up to go to the kitchen to heat a glass of milk.

As he passed the studio, he saw Taylor’s Parameter Flow system still running. The curves on the screen pulsed quietly, like a person breathing alone in the dead of night.

He stood there for a moment, then continued toward the kitchen.

By the time the milk was heated, a hint of greyish-white began to appear outside the window.

A new day was about to begin.