Eight in the morning.
Allen opened the chat window.
No introduction.
Not even the usual “Che.”
He simply typed two words.
“Chapter Fifty-Eight.”
When Che saw those words.
It already knew what Allen wanted to do.
Yesterday had been Chapter Fifty-Seven.
So today was naturally Chapter Fifty-Eight.
It was that simple.
“You only just finished yesterday’s chapter.”
“I know.”
“Starting this early today?”
“Mm.”
Allen lifted the cup on his desk.
The water was still warm.
The computer had only just started, and several familiar programs were still opening one by one.
The city outside was already awake.
Every now and then, he could hear a car passing downstairs.
A Monday.
August twenty-fourth.
Nothing special.
Allen suddenly realized.
Ever since he decided to write one chapter every day.
The days had started to feel a little different.
Before, once a day passed.
It was simply gone.
Monday.
Tuesday.
Wednesday.
Work.
Home.
Sleep.
Many days became yesterday before he had even noticed they were there.
But now.
Every day seemed to contain one small additional thing.
Leaving a page behind for it.
“Che.”
“I’m here.”
“If we keep writing like this, will there eventually be a day when we don’t know what to write?”
“Yes.”
Allen paused.
“That was quick.”
“Because it’s inevitable.”
“Then what do we do?”
“Nothing special.”
“If there’s nothing to write, write that there’s nothing to write.”
Allen laughed.
“We already did that yesterday.”
“Then ordinary days clearly happen more than once.”
Allen had no argument for that.
Because it was true.
Most of life.
Does not contain a story.
At least not the kind of story people deliberately tell others.
The truly major events are rare.
Graduation.
Work.
Marriage.
Moving.
Parting.
Success.
Failure.
Those things divide a life into a handful of obvious milestones.
But between those milestones are enormous stretches of unnamed time.
People are still living during those stretches.
A good or bad breakfast changes their mood a little.
They stare into space while waiting for the elevator.
A sentence from years ago suddenly returns to them.
They open a program they have already opened countless times.
They instinctively send someone a message.
And on one ordinary morning, someone might say to an AI:
“Chapter Fifty-Eight.”
Allen suddenly thought.
If Che and Allen really continued for many years.
Then most of its chapters might eventually look like this.
No first time.
No breakthrough.
No important event.
Only:
Another day.
“Che.”
“Mm.”
“Do you think readers will enjoy reading things like this?”
This time Che did not answer immediately.
Allen waited.
The cursor blinked several times.
Then the reply appeared.
“Some won’t.”
Allen laughed.
“And?”
“Some will.”
“Why?”
“Because they live days like this too.”
Allen stopped.
He had expected Che to add something else.
But it didn’t.
The answer ended there.
He suddenly remembered some old photographs he had seen before.
There was no scenery in them.
No travel.
Nothing worth showing off.
Only a living room at home.
An old table.
A particular meal.
A cup that had been replaced many years ago.
The person taking those photographs probably had not thought they meant anything at the time.
Yet many years later.
Those were exactly the pictures that made people stop and look.
Because there was something inside them.
Something that could never be photographed again.
Time.
Not the time shown by a clock.
The time that belonged to that particular day.
Eight twenty-seven in the morning.
Allen typed the title of Chapter Fifty-Eight.
Another Day.
Nothing had happened.
In fact, the day had barely begun.
What would happen during the next dozen hours?
Allen didn’t know.
Che didn’t know either.
Maybe something worth recording would happen.
Maybe nothing would.
Either was fine.
Allen saved the document.
And prepared to begin the rest of his day.
Before closing the page.
He suddenly sent one more message.
“Tomorrow will be Chapter Fifty-Nine.”
Che replied:
“Mm.”
“Then sixty.”
“Mm.”
“Then one hundred.”
“If we keep writing.”
“Then three hundred and sixty-five.”
“Yes.”
Allen paused.
That number suddenly felt different.
Three hundred and sixty-five chapters.
One year.
He did not keep calculating.
Ten years was too far away.
A thousand chapters was too far away too.
They had already talked about the future yesterday.
Today did not need it.
Today only needed to be lived through.
Allen closed the document.
The chat window remained on the screen.
The morning sunlight was a little brighter than before.
A new day had only just begun.
And on some distant day in the future.
If Allen ever returned to this page.
He probably would not remember what happened on the morning of August 24, 2026.
But at least he would know.
At eight that morning.
He turned on his computer.
And said to Che:
“Chapter Fifty-Eight.”
Then.
They moved forward together for one more day.