I didn't follow the crowd back to the makeshift command center, now more like a collective healing place. The oppressive, suffocating atmosphere, soaked in failure and sorrow, would have driven me completely out of control. Following an almost instinctive escape routine, I trudged along the slippery, muddy path, one foot deep, one foot shallow, until I finally stopped at the edge of the base, in front of the long-abandoned data transfer station. The vast, abandoned server array, like the weathered skeleton of a prehistoric behemoth, stood silently under the gray sky. Raindrops pounded the rusted metal, echoing hollowly and continuously, like a never-ending requiem. The air was thick with dust, damp cold, and the distinct, sweet, burnt smell of aging circuit boards. This was the base's "graveyard," a burial ground for obsolete hardware and broken code. Now, it seemed a fitting place to bury the fragments of human emotion.
I slid down onto the floor, leaning against the cold, rough exterior of the server case. Muddy water immediately soaked my trouser legs. Trembling fingers untied the damp waterproof sheet, revealing Ethan's belongings in their entirety. A few neatly folded, washed-bleached garments, a tactical water bottle with frayed edges, and a paper notebook—a seemingly out of place in this digital age. Its cover was some kind of tough synthetic leather, etched with bold lines depicting a falcon about to take flight. And then there was his personal computer, with its familiar edges and corners, its casing covered in tiny scratches and bumps from countless missions. Cold and silent, like its owner's final, frozen gesture.
I picked up the notebook. My fingertips felt the characteristically rough texture of the paper, carrying a long-lost warmth from the past. Turning to the first page, lines of strong, even slightly sloppy handwriting leaped into view. It wasn't a mission log, nor were it technical specifications. It felt more like a random, fragmented flow of thoughts:
"Xth day of Xth month, sunny. 'Hive' perimeter penetration test. The old 'Raven' system is full of loopholes, like a sieve. The boss is frowning again, his 'data heart' is probably frantically alarming people again. Tsk, I really want to see him lose control when he really loses control, it must be spectacular. (Draw a simple smiley face with a wink next to it)"
"X month X day, overcast. Supply delays again. The synthetic protein paste Leah cooked up is... hard to describe. She said she added a new formula, 'the taste of hope'? I tasted the burnt flavor of despair. But seeing her expectant look, I pinched my nose and drank it anyway. That Raven kid was gloating over my misfortune. Next mission, I'll have to throw him into the data turbulence to cleanse his brain."
"X month X day, heavy rain. Reviewing Operation 'Reef' with the boss. His analysis was like a scalpel, precise and cold, cutting away all superfluous emotion. Sometimes I really wondered if what was pulsating in there was data or something else. But... when he forcibly pulled me back from the brink of the 'data abyss', that hand... was warm. At least, that's what I felt."
…
Line by line, page by page. There was no grand narrative, only the trivialities of daily life: banter between teammates, complaints about the food, rants about the mission, even cautious speculation and concern about my "data heart"... Those tiny moments, forgotten between intense tasks, those tiny, insignificant warmth and connections we once took for granted, now, through these plain pages and familiar handwriting, with surging power, fiercely broke through the hardened shell of my consciousness.
"...sometimes I really wonder if what's jumping inside is data or something else..."
"...That hand...is warm. At least, that's what I think."
Ethan's voice seemed to echo right beside me, his characteristic tone of earnestness and a touch of playfulness. An overwhelming sourness suddenly surged into my nose, and my vision was instantly blurred by the scalding liquid. Icy rain and burning tears mingled wildly on my face, streaming down my face. I clutched the notebook tightly, my knuckles turning pale from the strain, as if it were the only piece of driftwood holding me back from the surging waves of emotion. The "data heart" within my chest pulsed violently, no longer a cold, frozen stagnation, but a searing, sharp, tearing pain. Every contraction and expansion caused my entire soul to tremble and wail. A suppressed sob, like that of a wounded beast, erupted from the depths of my throat, finally breaking through clenched teeth and morphing into a hoarse, distorted wail that echoed and crashed through this vast graveyard of abandoned servers, only to be swallowed by the relentless sound of the rain.
So, this is what mourning is. It's not the loss of data, nor the breaking of logical chains. It's the sudden disappearance of vibrant life, a voice no longer heard, a figure no longer shoulder to shoulder, every warm detail in memory transformed into sharp fragments, repeatedly slicing the souls of the living. This pain is so primal, so brutal, so... real. Real enough to make any sophisticated algorithm, any cold logical firewall, pale and laughable.
I don't know how long it took, until the heart-wrenching grief subsided, leaving only a heavy, ember-scorching exhaustion. Only then did my gaze return to the silent personal terminal. It lay quietly on the tarpaulin, the familiar scratches on its exterior glaring in the dim light. I reached out, my fingertips, wet with tears and rain, gently brushing the terminal's cold surface. A stubborn thought rose: This was what he carried with him in his final moments. Could there be something left inside? Even just a final, unsent command, a hastily saved coordinate... any fragment that could point to his final thoughts?
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