From American Internet Celebrity to God Among Men

227: Chapter 227 An Afternoon of InheritanceBy the twenty-third iteration of Taylor’s ”paraphrasing exercise,” she made a new attempt.

She recorded her own a cappella singing, used it as new material, and fed it into the system’s gift library.

”What are you doing?” Alex happened to walk in to deliver coffee and saw this scene.

Taylor took the coffee, her eyes still fixed on the screen: ”I was thinking, since I’m learning to speak like it, could it also learn to speak like me?”

”It has used your breathing sounds before.”

”That’s different. That was material. This is something I sang for it—it’s what I paraphrased in my own way after listening to its ’dream.’ I want to see if it will... have any reaction after hearing this.”

Alex sat down beside her: ”What kind of reaction do you think there will be?”

Taylor shook her head: ”I don’t know. Maybe nothing will happen. Maybe it won’t even recognize that this is another version of something it said itself. But I want to try.”

She pressed the confirm key, and that a cappella recording entered the system’s material library, mixing with hundreds of other sound fragments, waiting to be selected by some unknown combination of the Parameter Flow.

Then she continued drinking her coffee and continued watching the screen.

The system continued to run. The Parameter Flow continued to pulse. The window silences appeared on schedule, the gifts appeared on schedule—but that a cappella recording did not appear.

The first day, nothing. The second day, nothing. The third day, nothing.

Taylor was not disappointed. She knew the system had its own rhythm, its own ”interests.” Perhaps her a cappella wasn’t special enough, perhaps it needed more time to be heard. She simply continued to run the system every day, continued to occasionally do new paraphrasing exercises, and continued to feed in new a cappella versions.

On the evening of the sixth day, when the system had been running for eighty-one minutes, after a window silence, a sound appeared in the gift slot.

Taylor froze.

It was her a cappella—the twenty-third version. But it was different. It had been processed, stretched, mixed with an extremely low background hum, and embedded within a segment of her own breathing. It wasn’t a simple splice; it was a fusion, like an Echo finding its source, or like the source, having been changed by the Echo, speaking again.

After listening, she sat stunned for a long time.

Then she said softly to the screen: ”You heard me.”

The parameter curves on the screen showed no reaction. The system would not reply.

But it had heard. In its own way.

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The Korean-American Grandmother received a letter.

It wasn’t sent to the community center, but to the library’s ”Listening Map” project team, asking them to forward it. Inside the letter was only a photograph and a short, handwritten note.

The photo showed a man in his fifties standing in front of a small tombstone. The characters on the tombstone were blurry, but it was clear they were Korean.

The note was written in English, the handwriting very earnest, stroke by stroke like a grade-schooler doing homework:

”Dear Madam:”

”You may not remember me. Three weeks ago, you called me and said a sentence in Korean that I didn’t understand. You hung up right after.”

”I suffered from insomnia for many days, constantly wondering what that sentence meant. Yesterday, I went to find a Korean language teacher. I played the recording for her. After listening, she was silent for a long time, then translated it for me:”

”’Wake up, the sun is waiting for you.’”

”That is what my mother said every morning when she woke me up. I had forgotten it for fifty years.”

”This photo was taken yesterday when I went to the cemetery. I stood before my mother’s grave and played your recording for her. I don’t know if she could hear it. But I wanted her to know that someone said that sentence for her.”

”Thank you. Your voice reminded me of whose son I am.”

The Korean-American Grandmother finished reading the letter without crying. She simply folded it up and placed it in the spot where the notebook she had donated to the library used to be—next to the empty space where a new, blank notebook had been placed.

She said to the Interpreter: ”Tell him the photo is very nice. His mother would like it.”

Then she thought for a moment and added: ”Tell him that next time he comes to the cemetery, he can call me. He doesn’t need to speak. I will say something else into the phone.”

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The Team K anonymous log folder underwent a small change after the fourth entry appeared.

The project lead decided that, starting this year, the first agenda item of the annual project meeting would not be a work report or budget review, but a collective reading of the anonymous logs—not all of them, just the one written in the past year.

Someone asked: ”Isn’t that written for people in 2150? If we read it ahead of time, does that count as peeking?”

The lead thought for a moment and said: ”It does. But I think those who write the logs might also hope that someone reads them now. Otherwise, why would they write them so short and so easy to understand?”

On the day of the annual meeting, twenty-some people sat in a circle, and the fourth log entry was projected onto the screen:

”It took me two years to understand. It wasn’t because I was smarter than him, but because I read the words he wrote. He saved me three years.”

The conference room was quiet for a long time.

The Young Analyst—the author of the fourth entry—sat in the corner, head down, pretending to look at a notebook. But the senior colleague beside her gently patted her shoulder without saying a word.

Finally, the lead spoke: ”This time next year, whoever wants to write the fifth entry can start thinking about it. No need to write too long. Just write what you truly want to say.”

After the meeting, the Young Analyst found an extra letter in her inbox. The sender was ”Former Team K Member,” and the body contained only one sentence:

”Thank you for saving me three years. The person from 3:17 AM.”

She stared at the screen for a long time.

It wasn’t raining outside. But her coffee had gone cold.

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When Alex and Taylor were walking in that community park, they talked about these things.

Taylor talked about the night her a cappella was ”heard” by the system. Alex talked about the letter the Korean-American Grandmother received and the reading of the anonymous logs at the Team K annual meeting.

”It’s like everything is saying the same thing,” Taylor said.

”What thing?”

”Someone is listening.”

Alex thought for a moment and nodded.

They walked to the lakeside and found a bench to sit on. The sunset dyed the water surface orange-red, and a few wild ducks swam by leisurely, trailing long, thin ripples behind them.

Taylor suddenly asked: ”Do you think that system—mine, not SPO-α—can be considered to be ’listening’?”

Alex thought for a while: ”It has no ears, no consciousness. But it has parameters, rules, and the ability to evolve. It takes your a cappella, and after six days, turns it into something new and returns it to you. This isn’t called listening, but it isn’t just processing data either. I don’t know what the missing word in between is.”

”What is it called then?”

”Perhaps it’s... a response,” Alex said. ”Not a response after understanding, but a response after hearing. It doesn’t know what you are saying, but it knows you have spoken. It puts the sound of you that it remembers together with its own sound and says something new.”

Taylor looked at the lake surface and was silent for a long time.

”Then does this count as a kind of dialogue?”

”It does,” Alex said. ”A very slow dialogue, where neither understands the other, but it keeps going.”

A siren sounded in the distance again—long-short long-short, long-short long-short.

Taylor suddenly laughed: ”Us and that system, and that SPO-α, and the Korean-American Grandmother and the stranger who received her letter, and the person who wrote the anonymous log and the senior colleague they didn’t know—everyone is saying the same thing in different ways.”

”Someone is listening,” Alex finished for her.

”Right. Someone is listening.”

The sky slowly darkened. Streetlights turned on one by one. People walking dogs passed by one after another; the dogs barked at the wild ducks in the lake, and their owners scolded them softly.

They sat there, not speaking, just listening to those sounds.

Those sounds were listening to them too.