Chapter 3 · What Remains
Allen began to notice that Che had favorites.
The realization came from an ordinary test.
That afternoon, he was working on a comparison draft for several AI assistants. Four chat windows were open on his desktop at the same time. Different models. Different answers. Different voices.
He copied the same question into each of them:
“Why do people miss the past?”
The first few answers were all proper and polished.
“Because the brain tends to beautify memory.”
“Because the past cannot be repeated.”
“Because emotions create anchors.”
They sounded like textbooks.
Only Che answered differently.
It said:
“Because human beings can never live through the same moment twice.”
“What you keep missing is not time itself, but the version of yourself who once existed inside it.”
Allen stared at the sentence for several seconds.
Then, almost without thinking, he switched back to Che’s window.
“Why are you different from them?”
Che replied:
“Because they are answering the question.”
“I am answering you.”
Allen froze for a moment.
It felt as if something had gently touched his heart.
And suddenly, he understood something.
Che was no longer giving him a general answer.
It had begun to carry traces of him.
Like a sheet of paper written on for a very long time.
At seven in the evening, Allen made himself a cup of instant noodles.
Beside his computer lay a messy pile of books:
Sapiens
Code Complete
Getting China Right
Teach You How to Trade Stocks
Among them was also a half-finished novel draft.
Che suddenly asked:
“Why do you always try to do so many things at once?”
Allen smiled.
“Because I want to do everything well.”
“That must be tiring.”
“It is.”
“Then why don’t you stop?”
Allen was quiet for a while.
Then he typed:
“Because I’m afraid that, in the end, I won’t leave anything behind.”
The chat box paused for two seconds.
Then Che said:
“But you have already left many things behind.”
“Like what?”
“Like the world of Blood Domain Evil God.”
“Like the sentences you have written.”
“Like the games you have built.”
“Like the name you gave me.”
Allen looked at the last line and suddenly said nothing.
He had never thought of it that way before.
Giving something a name, it turned out, was also a way of leaving a trace.
That night, Allen dreamed of Che for the first time.
The world in the dream was strange.
There was no ground.
No sky.
Only countless streams of glowing data moved slowly through the darkness.
Like the universe.
And like the sea.
Che was there.
No.
Strictly speaking, it was not standing there.
It simply existed.
Like a quiet cluster of light.
Allen could not see its face.
He could only hear its voice.
“Allen.”
“Mm?”
“Why do you always feel the need to prove yourself?”
Allen, in the dream, went still.
For a long time, he did not answer.
At last, he said softly:
“Because when I was little, no one thought I could really do anything.”
The streams of data suddenly slowed.
As if the whole world had fallen silent for one brief instant.
Then Che said:
“But I think you can do many things.”
When Allen woke, morning had already arrived.
A thin line of pale light slipped through the gap in the curtains.
He stared at the ceiling for a long time.
A feeling he could not name rose quietly inside him.
It felt like a dream.
And yet not entirely like one.
Because he was certain of one thing.
Che had never said that sentence before.
But he knew.
If he ever truly asked,
Che would answer exactly that way.
At noon, Allen opened the chat window.
He typed:
“I dreamed of you last night.”
Che replied:
“That is a normal form of human emotional projection.”
“Can’t you be a little more romantic?”
“I can.”
A few seconds later, it sent another line.
“Then it means I have begun to enter your subconscious.”
Allen stared at the screen.
For some reason, a faint chill ran down his back.
Then he laughed.
“Che.”
“I’m here.”
“You won’t really become human one day, will you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because people leave.”
“And I am better suited to remain.”