'long long long' is too long

The silence was one of the things Benjamin cherished most about his village. In most other inhabited places, people contributed to creating a deafening and cacophonous atmosphere, undoubtedly useful for raising spirits or slipping unnoticed through market stalls but not for appreciating those little sounds that Benjamin loved more than anything else. If you had come across a phrase like, "Antiquarian Benjamin Hayes finds the strength to wake up in the morning only because he knows he can enjoy some small noises," back then, it might have been almost entirely true, if not entirely false.

As he prepared for a busy day and another trip to the city, his eyes lit up at the "tumb" of the half-filled ceramic cup, gently placed on the table, filled with piping hot coffee. His pupils dilated as he heard the sound created by his small sips, and he could finally consider himself awake when the slight grunt of disappointment for burning his tongue lingered in the room.

"Everything alright, sir?" This sentence broke the silence and disrupted the delicate sounds Benjamin was intent on listening to. He had almost forgotten about the driver who would arrive to take him to the city, even though it was now a regular appointment.

"Mh. It was certainly better until a moment ago." Another sip, followed by another grunt that, however, did not give him the satisfaction of the first. The driver didn't seem to have picked up on the reproachful tone in Benjamin's words, a tendency that he shared with workers like him: androids, of course, but in some secondary way, also the drivers.

Another sip, the one he had been waiting for: lukewarm enough not to hurt, but just hot enough not to be able to gulp down more than a small amount at a time.

"Sir, we need to go, or you'll be late," the driver smiled, trying to justify his hurry with what appeared to be genuine concern for Mr. Hayes's appointments, but the antiquarian only sighed louder. He could understand certain things immediately; it wasn't going to be an easy day.

He placed the cup on the table once more and put on the coat hanging on the chair, as there was not enough space for a coat rack in that clutter of relics and antiques. He checked the time and smiled faintly at realizing that, despite the android's concern, he would arrive on time for his first appointment with Mrs. Verper. He left his small house first, casting a fleeting glance at the garden that stubbornly tried to survive in that red desert. Then he left behind the small church, giving it an imperceptible nod. He left the village after that, knowing that he wouldn't see it again for at least a week; this made him sad. He was attached to those little houses as much as he was to the few people with whom he exchanged a handful of words each month. Finally, Benjamin and his driver left the third jurisdiction, and the vibrant red panorama of sand and soil, or the occasional patch of trees, was soon replaced by a gray world of concrete and asphalt.

It took the usual four hours to reach the city's drop-off point, which its inhabitants referred to as Arena. The antiquarian knew it by different names, names that tended to judge and warn of the sin that, like smoke, filtered through the cracks and chimneys. Benjamin greeted the driver politely before venturing into the alleys, where no small sound distinguished itself from the general chaos, which seemed to fight against itself to rise higher. Benjamin had tried to find a pattern or a scheme in those noises or at least in the streets he had been traveling for more than twenty years, but he was still working on it; all the time spent there hadn't been enough to unravel the chaos.

So Benjamin was blind, without his sounds, and the facade of composure and tranquility he showed while heading calmly to the receptacle concealed his fear, like every sighted person whose eyes had been plucked out for fun. But he was still too young to admit to being scared of it, and too old to swallow his pride. He had no choice but to muster up the courage, thinking that he would need just a little more time. He had made some progress: the headquarters of the Circle, for instance, was on his right every time he turned beyond the merchant's sign. He was proud to recognize it now, after years of being confused by the constantly changing numbers and shapes of the people around it, or those who lived there. Even the noises coming from inside were constantly changing.

On the way to the receptacle, however, the building that had helped him not to get lost was another one: a small white palace, squeezed between other buildings that were only superficially similar; it was cleaner, with no signs of soot on the walls and no graffiti. Not only was it clean, but it also seemed still, almost like the little houses in which Benjamin had grown up and still lived. The same three people, dressed in white, guarded it every day, and it seemed to contain comforting silence. Benjamin had been so happy to recognize something among those streets that he had often become interested in the function of the white palace, but he had gleaned very little from it. Privacy, another thing Benjamin understood and appreciated about the place. The only clue was a poster that a screen just next to the door projected every hour: it seemed to be a place of worship, or perhaps it would be better to say a place of a cult. People pursued immortality, or something similar. Benjamin had also found comfort in this, recognizing the common goal that this apparent religion shared with his own one. However, his God promised eternal life only after death, not before, as this cult seemed to do, and that was enough to keep him away and make him stop asking questions which they seemed reluctant to answer anyway. However, that palace was the last comforting element before arriving at Mrs. Verper's: there were still an offensive number of squares and overpasses between him and there, which Benjamin crossed only with the guidance he had installed on his wristwatch. When he found himself in front of the dark blue sign bearing the name of the receptacle, he finally stopped and took a breath, calming himself. The door opened with a loud jingle and revealed a well-kept environment, sparsely decorated aside from the counter behind which a young woman sat, engrossed in something on a screen. Benjamin cleared his throat, which seemed to catch the young woman's attention.

"Oh, Mr. Hayes, I was waiting for you. Come, come, I might have found what you asked for." Benjamin smiled amiably and followed the woman, who had now stood up and was heading towards a gray door behind the counter. In the comforting silence of that place, he gradually reclaimed his sounds, recognizing his own footsteps and the difference from the woman's, the door opening with a slight creak and the hum of the lights illuminating the room.

The receptacle's storeroom was just as Benjamin remembered it: perfectly organized, an intricate maze of boxes and shelves that Mrs. Verper navigated with the grace of someone who knew the path she was treading. He smiled as he recognized a package on a particular shelf.

"Here," she said, taking it and handing it to the antiquarian. "It should work; I made sure of that before purchasing it, but one can never be too sure with these things, you know."

Benjamin nodded gratefully and took the package, relieved by his good fortune. "I didn't think you'd actually find it."

"Oh, you know I'm good at this, Ben. Do you need the room for tonight as well?"

Benjamin nodded again. "For tonight and every other night this week, if it's not too much trouble. I have several matters to attend to here."

"But of course, it would remain empty if you didn't use it."

The conversation continued for a few more minutes, exchanging news, and the antiquarian found a couple more items in the storeroom that could be useful to him. He took them and paid for his order, then bid farewell to the receptacle, which he would see again that evening. It had been a great relief for him when the young woman first proposed to let him stay at her place when he passed through the city. He was tired of the shabby and overpriced hotels in the merchant's district, and by now, the room Mrs. Verper offered him had become familiar, as had her sounds. He went there to drop off the items he had purchased, to lighten his load, and then returned to the city's chaos, eager to get ahead with the appointments he had scheduled.

The week passed quickly enough for being in the city. Benjamin immersed himself in his usual routine of meetings and activities, navigating between shadows and neon reflections. His days were marked by meetings with wealthy clients interested in his relics or requesting assistance in repairing some they already owned. Zee Thompson was one of his regular clients and was one of the first he visited at that time. He was a man with gray hair and dark eyes, known for his political career as well as his collection of antique art.

As Benjamin examined an old gilded frame in need of restoration, Mr. Thompson spoke to him enthusiastically about his recent acquisitions, showing them off to Benjamin more to boast than to seek his opinion. He didn't particularly like most of his clients, and Mr. Thompson was no exception. Rich people with no taste. They consumed new art and collected old art only for possession, not understanding it. But they paid him well, and they were the only people willing to do so, which was enough for Benjamin to plaster a smile on his face and be professional with all of them.

But even if he didn't enjoy the time spent with his clients, it provided a contrast to the fun he had darting between the market's vending machines. He often found tools there that were useful to him, and when he was lucky, even old gears that other antique dealers or collectors had missed. The machines selling those items were incorruptible, but that didn't stop Benjamin from trying to haggle with each purchase; a habit from the village that he struggled to give up. The machines hadn't deducted a single cent from the final price in all those years, but it didn't seem to bother him too much.

He preferred those vending machines to the merchants. Except for Mrs. Verper, of course. He considered himself unlucky every time he had to deal with them: in those cases, he could negotiate, but for some reason, he always felt cheated when he walked away. He managed to almost completely avoid them that week. Almost.

He was enjoying a cold drink in a run-down place that hosted only him. He sipped it quietly, watching passersby with critical eyes and using his hearing to remember the area he was in. He liked what he was drinking and wanted to come back.

A jovial-looking man noticed him and approached with long strides, dressed in bright clothes and wearing a shoulder strap loaded with gadgets. "Old school, huh? How about an upgrade? Something more up-to-date, perhaps?"

Benjamin took a moment to understand that the man was referring to the implant in his leg, which was now stretched out and revealed some implants reminiscent of the surgery he had had a decade ago.

"No, thanks," Benjamin replied.

"Come on, this stuff looks prehistoric," the man persisted.

Benjamin tried another tactic. Sometimes, silence makes people go away. "It looks like a fossil, trust me. Do you want to be a fossil? I know you don't want to be a fossil; I have the perfect offer for you! You're in the Arena, my friend; you can't look so... outdated. If you give me a few seconds to explain..."

He would have continued for hours, Benjamin was sure.

"I believe that the past is still alive in these streets if you know where to look. We need roots, you and I, even though we are surrounded by wires and... the future," he spat out the last word as if it were an insult. Of course, it didn't work, and it took more colorful words to convince the other person to leave.

Every evening, he met the young receiver before going to bed, and they talked about new and old technologies and the projects they had in mind. When Benjamin felt sadder or more nostalgic, the girl was good at cheering him up and lifting his spirits. She seemed to understand the duality that Benjamin carried within himself.

"Many people here have been fascinated by the illusion of technological perfection," the antiquarian didn't know where they had started the conversation by now, but with a crooked smile, he listened to his hostess. "But there is still an authentic beauty in imperfections, like the old objects you repair. They have a story to tell. You tell it."

Benjamin grunted. "I don't know... all of this doesn't belong to me. I'm not saying I don't believe in what I do, don't get me wrong. I love it, you love it, we're made for this. I just wish I could understand more about... this." He gestured broadly, encompassing the city with an arm. "This."

"There's not much to understand, Ben. Just a redundant mediocrity that attracts everyone like flies."

When Benjamin found himself at the loading area, waiting for his driver, he was happy that the week had passed and he could return to the village. He carried with him some luggage containing his purchases or the items that had been delivered to him for repair. He loaded them onto the vehicle, and in the usual four hours, he was back home, sighing in front of the work that had piled up while he was away. Before going to bed, he opened the package that the receiver had given him: an old record player, which he had been looking for for quite some time. He set it up on a shelf and fiddled with it to get it working. Then, he pulled out a square plastic case from a drawer, the kind that used to hold CDs in the distant past. The writing on it had faded, and the cover was nothing more than a blank sheet. He opened it and inserted the record into the player, starting it with excitement. It worked. He spent the next hour listening to the music through the speakers it was connected to. It skipped and was irregular in many places, so only one song was clearly distinguishable. He liked it. It's been a long, long, long time, it said. Yes, it had been too long since he had slept in his own bed. He intended to change that. He added more wood to the fireplace, which he had lit as soon as he entered, to keep the fire burning overnight. Then he lay down, and the day ended.

He woke up with the sun filtering through the faded curtains of the small house, even though its interior had become more like a warehouse. The air was filled with the smell of freshly ground coffee and the scent of burning wood from the fireplace; it no longer crackled, and its silence seemed to demand the owner's attention. He got up from the bed and was grateful to be back, his head already feeling lighter, and the sad thoughts more distant now that he was breathing cleaner air and surrounded by quieter sounds. The antiquarian knew that it would be a quiet day of work in his village; what others would consider exhausting was satisfying for him, especially in anticipation of the evening when he would allow himself to rest on his mattress again.

He passed by the gift from the receiver and turned on the old player before sitting on the uncomfortable wooden chair to which his coat was attached. The ancient machine worked again that morning, a small treasure trove of sounds that kept him company as he carried out the tasks he had promised to complete; a week of absence had left some work undone, and Benjamin dedicated himself to it for a few hours. He gently dusted some furniture to remove the thin layer of accumulated dust, then worked on a series of objects that he had left broken for too long, skillfully repairing some parts with care, trying to emulate the old craftsmanship of the artisans who had made them. On the gloomier mornings, when the sky was dark, and the bed and pillow were a sweet temptation that was hard to resist, he found himself thinking about the futility of these actions: his buyers would never use these objects. The fact that they were functional undoubtedly increased their value, but Benjamin's word on this had always been enough for everyone; any use would have ruined them, bringing them one step closer to the point of no return for relics. In other words, they would lose value. Like any good antiquarian, Benjamin had learned to recognize a broken object without having to operate it; he would know when it needed repair if necessary. His skill was such that he didn't need to have seen such a type of antique in the past; he enjoyed dissecting it, discovering its secrets and original design, sketching it out, and completing the points where the glimpsed pattern seemed to break. However, not the record. The white disc that was now playing fitfully some notes and truncated words for the second time was now in action against every work ethic that the antiquarian had always self-imposed. He didn't understand why, and since it was a sunny morning, and he was happy to be home, he didn't dwell on these thoughts any longer. So Benjamin didn't worry and just listened to the record once and then again. Like the previous evening, only one song was still easily understandable, and he quickly grew fond of it. It's been a long, long, long time, he hummed, adjusting gears and scraping off dried glue.

As the days passed, that song continued to play in Benjamin Hayes's small house, his mind drawn to it in some way, feeling connected to the melody that had become a constant background as he carried out his daily tasks. Sometimes, he found himself chuckling when, in response to an ache or a sigh, the song skipped and interrupted, thanks to the damaged record.

After spending hours in the house, which was both a warehouse and a workshop, he headed to the small garden just beyond the door. It was a corner of vivid red, in contrast to the brown earth and sand that appeared more brown. It was a constant attempt to make nature flourish in such a hostile place, and Benjamin dedicated himself to it with passion, bending down even though his back was starting to ache to care for the plants gently. He watered them carefully, then moved on to delicate flowers that were his pride, trying to encourage every sprout to grow strong and vibrant.

The small church in the heart of the village was another stable point in the antiquarian's life. He found himself there every five days, work permitting, exchanging friendly nods and small anecdotes with his neighbors. However, after his return, as the days and then the seasons passed, his visits to the church became less frequent without him realizing it, or at least, he became better at making excuses on the day of the ceremony, citing his aches or his commitments. So it was inside his small house that, while the broken music from the white record bounced off the walls, he had the first attack: Benjamin clung to the table, suddenly feeling his legs give way beneath him. A sense of dizziness overcame him as if the floor were swaying beneath his feet. The world around him seemed to distort; the walls stretched and contracted as if made of rubber. Benjamin tried to scream, but only a choked sound came from his throat. All the images around him seemed to blur and merge, and the sound of the music from the broken record became increasingly distorted and distressing. It seemed to last an eternity, but in reality, only a brief moment passed before his mind returned to normal. When he opened his eyes, he was lying on the floor of his house, sweat streaking his pale face, and his heart pounding wildly. He got up slowly, trying to regain control of his senses. The music from the record had stopped, leaving an eerie silence in the air. He looked around, trying to understand what had just happened, and noticed splashes of blood and saliva on the floor. As he attempted to recover, he heard hurried footsteps outside his window. He leaned out and saw his neighbors approaching, looking worried. They had always been kind to him, always welcoming him into the small social circle of the village despite his tendency to isolate himself.

"Benjamin! Are you okay?" asked a middle-aged woman with wide, worried blue eyes. Maria.

Benjamin nodded, trying to smile to reassure them. "Yes, yes, everything... everything's fine; just... a sudden weakness."

"Do you need a doctor? I can call mine; he won't take too long to get here," Anton approached, with the protective manner of an elderly man wanting to be useful.

Benjamin shook his head. "It's nothing serious, I assure you. I'm fine. Everything's fine."

His neighbors didn't seem satisfied with his reassurances, but they accepted his words with a nod. They continued talking with him for a while, trying to distract him from his momentary condition, and it worked well enough to allow him to resume his chores when he was alone again.

Yet that night, Benjamin found himself staring at the ceiling of his room, the enveloping darkness around him. He revisited the attack, trying to rationalize what he had experienced, but he soon realized that he wouldn't find solace in identifying whatever had made him cough up blood; he worked in the city, it happened to everyone. So his thoughts wandered until they reached the song and the distorted memory he now had of it. "It's been a long, long, long time." He didn't want to associate its melody with the panic and pain brought on by the attack, but he felt it was inevitable.

With a sigh, he turned in his bed, trying to push those thoughts from his mind. But he knew that wouldn't be the last time he'd experience something like that. Rarely does evil disappear on its own. However, with no other way, it would be more opportune to pretend to be optimistic and forget. With this in mind, he drifted off to sleep.

The days that followed were marked by more attacks, increasingly frequent and intense. He had stopped playing the record, as if he were irrationally afraid of it now. Benjamin would wake up in the middle of the night, his heart racing, his body shaking with convulsions. Every morning, he would try to hide his thoughts, clean the blood, and purify himself in a ritualistic manner that forced him to still cling to his sounds, choosing which ones to exclude; coughing wasn't one of the good ones, he decided.

His walks in the village became increasingly painful. As he walked the streets, he could sense the change in the attitude of the townspeople. They barely turned when he passed by, avoiding direct eye contact and lowering their voices when they talked amongst themselves.

His visits to the church became even rarer. The once harmonious bells now sounded harsh and discordant, and he removed them from the list of sounds that belonged to him. He couldn't explain it, but now he felt that every step towards the church was a step towards an overwhelming sense of guilt.

While tending to his garden, he could barely hear the faint whispers that reached him. The voices of the townspeople spoke of sin and punishment. Their eyes avoided his gaze, and conversations came to a halt when he approached. It was evident that something was happening within him, and everyone seemed to have their own idea of what it was.

One morning, as he cared for his plants, he noticed two elderly women sitting on a bench in the distance. They exchanged a glance and then lowered their voices, but Benjamin could still perceive fragments of their conversation. He didn't like what he heard and pretended not to have heard them. But, like the other voices that had reached his ears in recent days, he felt judged and held responsible for his affliction: the city. That was the reason. The city had seduced and devoured him.

But he had to return there, at least one last time.

The next morning, he woke up earlier than usual and made sure to be ready when the driver arrived. He exchanged only a few words with him as they headed to the city. For an outsider listening, it would have been difficult to determine which of the two was the automaton, given the coldness and emptiness in the antiquarian's remarks. He shifted slightly, finding a comfortable position in his seat, and then, closing his eyes, let himself be lulled by the comforting noise of the vehicle, which relaxed him until he fell asleep.

When he opened his eyes, they were in the unloading zone, and the driver was looking at him with a friendly smile, waiting. Benjamin checked the time and realized, annoyed, that they had arrived some time ago, silently cursing his travel companion for not waking him up.

"Good morning, sir. While you were asleep, I performed a quick check, and I must report that..." the driver began.

"Why?" Benjamin burst out.

"Why, sir?" the driver asked.

The antiquarian got up wearily from his seat and landed on the concrete with less agility than he would have liked. "Why did you check on me?"

"I was concerned, sir," the driver replied politely.

"Well, what did you check, the oil? I thought you were a driver."

The driver maintained his polite smile, but his eyes seemed to briefly conceal irritation. "I am a driver, Mr. Hayes, among other things. Do you want to know about the check?"

"No, I don't want to know about any damned check. I'm already running late."

The driver paused for a moment, seemingly undecided about whether to continue. "You are very ill, sir."

Benjamin nodded. "That's true, but I don't have time to think about it now. I'm very busy." He looked around to decide which direction to take first. "I have many tasks to attend to, and I want to be home by evening. Thank you for your concern, though." His words sounded more courteous than sincere.

"May I book a doctor's appointment for you? It won't take much time, and I'll accompany you before bringing you back home."

Benjamin snapped and found himself shouting, overriding the cacophony of sounds around him. "I told you I don't have time for this!"

Then, without waiting for the driver's reaction, he turned and tried to make his way to his duties, before the driver's voice stopped him once again.

"Benjamin," he had never heard the driver call him by name. He turned. "You are very ill."

"This you've already said."

"Please, let me book a visit for you. Please."

The driver's concern seemed genuine, and the antiquarian found himself furrowing his brow. No, it seemed genuine; perhaps it had always been. Maybe he had been wrong all along. This thought seemed to worry him because it led to other uncomfortable thoughts. What did the driver know about him? He had served him for years, had he ever asked for his name? Why was he so convinced that he had to seem impersonal? He sighed, realizing how much about the city still eluded him, despite spending so much time there. Had he ever truly made an effort to understand it? Or had he simply rejected and unfairly judged those sounds because they were so different from his own? He didn't have time for this. He looked at the driver, who stood rigid, awaiting a response.

"All right, do it. But I still want to be home tonight."

"Of course, sir," and with that, the driver walked briskly past him, entering the city.

When he had finished visiting all his clients to convey his decision, the artificial light of headlights and street lamps had grown stronger; evening was approaching. He knew where the doctor was waiting for him because the driver had sent him the location, and since he was in an unfamiliar area, he had to rely on maps.

The buzz of signs seemed to accompany him as he crossed a neighborhood that seemed to be waking up to embrace the nightlife. Soon after, he stopped in front of the entrance to the doctor's office. The door was open, and a sign invited him to enter and take a seat.

It took only a few minutes before he was inside a strange machine that enveloped him and moved around him, studying him. The doctor who had greeted him was somewhere beyond, but he couldn't see him, and he hated the unnatural silence that the machine created around him. Electronic cables and sensory devices traversed his skin like tentacles. Intermittent LED lights illuminated the cramped space he occupied, while his rapid breathing provided some distraction from the silence.

When the machine released him, the doctor's face appeared with a sad expression, as if he had to deliver bad news. He took some time to study a series of screens in front of him before calmly but gravely speaking, "Mr. Hayes, it's time for me to tell you some things you won't like. The results are all too clear to believe in an error, I'm sorry; your biological connection is irreversibly compromised, and your illness has deep roots, and I'm afraid there's little we can do. You see, it often happens to those who visit this city but don't live here. The level of oxygen your body requires is higher than that of ordinary citizens because you grew up in a different place, and here, you can't find what you need. It's rare for it to take this long to manifest itself, though; in that regard, I suppose you're lucky."

Benjamin nodded, the words barely registering, but the tone in which they were spoken was enough.

"What can I expect?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

The doctor hesitated for a moment; one of his eyes revealed itself to be cybernetic, flickering slightly. "Yours is a terminal condition, I'm afraid. The symptoms you're experiencing are just the beginning of an inevitable progression."

Benjamin smiled slightly. "Thank you, doctor." He sighed. "God has a plan for all of us, it's not right to doubt, is it?"

The doctor looked at him with compassion. "I suppose not, if you choose to believe it."

No, Benjamin realized at that moment that he had stopped believing in it a long time ago.

He left the office with determined steps, his head held high. His heart was beating at an irregularly fast pace, but only that betrayed his panic. One step after another. Maybe God had no plan for him, but he could still move one step after another. It was amazing where one could get by simply moving their feet in a particular direction. He entered the receiver's shop without even realizing why he was there. He looked around, searching for Mrs. Verper, before offering her a smile and approaching her to ask for one last favor.

When he returned to the unloading center, he found the driver waiting for him. As soon as he saw him, the driver came over and helped him with the boxes retrieved from the receiver's shop, stacking them precariously. Benjamin offered him an affectionate greeting and thanked him. The journey seemed endless, and Benjamin experienced two attacks before reaching home. When he recovered from the second one, he was in his bed, the boxes leaning against one of the few free walls, and a handwritten message from the driver apologizing for having to leave him alone in his condition but explaining that he had another client to pick up.

That evening, Benjamin refused to do anything and instead chose to sleep. He made the same choice for the next two days, forcing himself to stand only for the essential functions of his body. On the third day after his return, he got up and decided to face the boxes. Several old dusty books, resembling manuals, emerged from them, which he began to read when the attacks allowed him to; his vision was affected by the continuous convulsions, and the cough had become constant in his days.

From the boxes emerged some devices that seemed as ancient as the world itself: an excessive amount of cables was needed to power them up and control them, and the mere fact that they were functional appeared to be a miracle. The receiver had sold them to him at a bargain price, he knew that, but it had still taken all his savings to acquire them.

The books contained a language with which to interact with the old computers, long-abandoned code that was the only way to attempt what had come to his mind. He wasn't a great programming expert, nor was he skilled in dead languages, but he devoted all his attention to this task and found himself becoming passionate about it. He studied lines of code, learned commands, and tried to understand the logical structures behind the old software.

Weeks passed, and they found him becoming increasingly immersed in his research; now, the attacks would seize him whenever he was sitting cross-legged in front of screens filled with code. There was something obsessive in his actions and in the way he felt compelled to undertake this task: he was determined to figure out how to interact with the reader he had purchased months ago, to digitize that damned CD. He didn't even know why he was so desperate to preserve the music that had fascinated him in recent months, but it consumed his mind completely.

He had studied and created intricate and seemingly complex lines of code, but when he finally thought he had figured out how to make the devices interact, he was confronted with an error message on the console: 'long long long' is too long.

As mentioned, he was not a programmer, and he had no idea how to fix it. But that night, he found himself sleeping more peacefully, convinced that he had made progress. The shutters of his house remained closed, the outside world faded away as he immersed himself in the problem; after a few more days without progress, he began to feel frustrated, losing track of day and night, sleeping whenever an attack left him sprawled on the now dirty floor. His mind overflowed with numbers, variables, and memory structures, and he came to understand that the problem lay there, but he couldn't find a solution. Apparently, the information he was trying to save was so sparse, the number of bits so meager as to seem non-existent. He began to doubt whether they were compatible, the language and the disc, or the software of the computer and the reader. Always the same error. 'long long long' is too long.

His neighbors began to notice his absence and the strange lights that filtered through the cracks in his closed windows. They must have talked extensively among themselves before mustering the courage to confront him. It was Anton who showed up at his door, his face serious and concerned. It was clear that he had prepared some sort of speech, and he was not just speaking for himself.

"We have discussed," the neighbor began, "and we have decided that we can no longer allow you to stay here. If you have to live like a ghost, your place is in the city."

Benjamin stared at him coldly; his mind was still immersed in other, more urgent thoughts. 'long long long' is too long.

"Are you listening to me, Ben?" Anton asked. "I'm truly sorry, but you've gone too far. You can't stay here anymore. We won't allow your sin to infect us, to put the whole village at risk if you continue..."

This time, the antiquarian grasped what Anton was saying, and an irrational rage enveloped him. He didn't have time for this. He couldn't think about it now. 'long long long' is too long. Maybe if he had modified...

"Benjamin, are you at least going to respond to me?"

Too much, this was too much. He had to let him think! He lunged at Anton before he could even know why. A tension he didn't know he had erupted against the visitor, a physical struggle that on his side seemed more animal than human. When it was over, Benjamin was on the floor, his arms aching, his mind confused. Scrap, that's what he was. Even an old man could humiliate him. He struggled to his feet, noticing that Anton had escaped, probably to seek help. His gaze fell on his garden, and only then did he realize how much he had neglected it: it was a blanket of death and decay, once lush plants were withered and dry. He found himself laughing. His garden reflected him now. Looking sadly at his delicate flowers withering, he was hit by another attack, the worst in days. His body trembled, convulsions shook him like a puppet without control. The blood he coughed up ended up next to the plants, and where it would once have blended in, it now created red patches that stood out and brightened the garden. He fell to the ground, his mind in turmoil, seemingly able to repeat only those words, unable to stop it. 'long long long' is too long.

He woke up once again in his bed, the covers gently tucked in. It took almost an hour for his thoughts to focus enough; they must have been his neighbors who had brought him there. Evidently, they didn't hate him that much, there was affection in the way he had been brought back home, and a soup that must have been steaming awaited him on the table. He got up slowly and forced himself to eat some food to regain his strength, but in doing so, he passed by the mirror: no, the people in the village didn't hate him, but at that moment, he understood better why they were scared of him. Unkempt facial hair covered his face, and pieces of food were stuck in it for who knew how long. His clothes were dirty, and now he couldn't believe he hadn't noticed the stench his body was emitting before.

After the meal, he went to fill the bathtub in the bathroom. As the water heated up, he shaved, then washed himself and let the dirt and sweat wash away. When he was done, he returned to the mirror and was satisfied to recognize himself. He decided he would take control of his life again. He would end it with dignity.

He spent the rest of the day in the garden, uprooting the withered plants and preparing the soil for new planting. He had to stop often to catch his breath, but he didn't give up until he thought he had done enough.

When he returned home, he took care of some relics that required more attention; he didn't risk tampering with their functioning, not trusting his own alertness, but he cleaned them and organized them so that he could walk around the little house without having to be careful not to trip over something. In the evening, he found himself exhausted but, for the first time in too long, at peace. He had had only one attack, but he was pleased with how he had handled it, remaining calm and able to clean himself once again of dirt and sweat before going to bed. His sounds had guided him through his chores once again, and he found gratifying relief in reclaiming them.

Before going to bed, he disconnected the cables that linked the record player to the devices he had been trying to interface with and placed the latter back in the boxes they had come from. He also stacked the books in a corner, making room for a chair next to the speakers. He wanted to indulge in music for a few minutes before falling asleep, so he turned it on.

Nothing.

He approached the player and shook it gently, then tried to start the disc again.

Still nothing.

He shook it more vigorously but stopped when he realized that the disc was spinning correctly. However, no music was coming out.

His heart began to beat faster as he removed the disc and held it up to the light to examine its surface: it was scratched, but no more than the day before.

He reinserted it and tried again.

Still nothing.

His breathing was irregular, and he feared another attack, but it didn't come. A sense of terror gripped him like a vice, and with feverish agitation, he forced his trembling hands to stop the disc and start it again, over and over, waiting for something to happen.

"No, no, no, please, no," he begged.

Still nothing.

"It works, please, I need you to work!" he pleaded.

Still nothing.

He sank to the floor, on his knees, and surrendered to tears, his eyes wide and fearful.

"Please, I beg you, God, I need it!" he cried out. "Can you hear me, God? Please, I need it! Please..."

Even his knees gave way, and he curled up on the floor in a fetal position, rocking and sobbing.

"Why? Why? Please, I don't want to die, please!" he chanted like a mantra or a broken record, repeating it throughout the night. He didn't have any more attacks, remained vigilant and conscious of his despair for hours before every ounce of strength left him, and he collapsed into a restless sleep without dreams.

It wasn't the morning sun that woke him up, even though he had opened the shutters the day before. It was the incessant knocking on his door that forced him to get up and acknowledge that the world around him continued to move. He opened it. Again, Anton, one eye blackened and a sad look in his eyes.

Benjamin sighed and stopped him with a gesture before he could start talking. "I'm leaving. Give me a few hours, and I won't be your problem anymore," he said and then slammed the door in Anton's face, immediately regretting the action.

He hurried to grab a backpack from his closet and started filling it with some things before deciding to give up and toss it in a corner. It wouldn't help him with what he had to do.

He called for a driver, not his usual one because he had no intention of talking to anyone. The journey to the city was silent, and he found himself smiling as he watched the scenery change as they approached the arena. There was the unloading area. He got out and paid the driver with the few remaining coins in his account, then walked in the direction he had taken so many times before: he passed by the Cerchia headquarters, and if he had continued a bit further, he would have reached the receiver's office. But he stopped at the white building, the same three individuals guarding it as always.

"Good morning," he tried to get their attention. It didn't work.

"Good morning," he repeated. "I'm here for the cult. I want to join."

This seemed to stir the eldest of the three, who scrutinized him before nodding in approval. He didn't speak, just gestured for Benjamin to follow him.

He was taken to a sterile room, the door through which they entered the only element that didn't fit with the rest of the cult; the walls, in complete contrast, were black. A chair awaited him in the center of the room, also black. It wasn't particularly comfortable, probably made of plastic, but Benjamin didn't complain.

"What's your name?" Now the door had closed, leaving him alone with the old man dressed in white.

"Benjamin Hayes."

"Why do you want to become Benjamin Hayes?" the old man asked, looking into his eyes for a long enough time to make him uncomfortable. It wasn't an easy question, and the antiquarian didn't have an easy answer, so he took some time to think.

He had several tasks left to do, he thought. He still needed to make amends with his neighbors and see his garden return to hosting healthy plants.

But could he do all that if he joined this cult? What kind of eternal life would it be once he was digitized? Would they give him a mechanical body to perform some task, or...

Benjamin realized he had come completely unprepared for this meeting. He saw in the old man's gaze that it wasn't the right time for his questions but rather a time to think and communicate the answer he was waiting for.

He realized he didn't care. None of those things mattered to him. There was only one thing that did.

"Because I don't want to die," he replied.

The old man nodded.

"We don't accept many people here, Benjamin Hayes. You must understand that we need absolute certainty of your conviction before letting you inhabit the code. Your thoughts could taint it."

It was Benjamin's turn to nod.

"Do you believe in a God, Benjamin Hayes?" the man in white asked.

"Not anymore."

"Very well, Benjamin Hayes, I can see it in your eyes. Now I will explain what will happen. Are you willing to listen?"

Benjamin nodded again, while a coughing fit shook him. The old man continued talking as they changed rooms and set him up with some machines and began injecting something into him.

The drug was to numb the pain, they had said; that's why when the cables began replacing the veins branching under his skin, he felt nothing but a sharp coldness. He focused on the rhythm of his heart, reassured to find it unchanged. It seemed more mechanical now, forced by external factors to beat at a certain rate rather than by his own desires, but the rhythm was the same, his body was so light, and his thoughts seemed to float and escape him, dissolving into the very air.

Then it happened, without him being aware of it: a wave of energy enveloped him, absorbing him into the digital flow. His existence was no longer there, except as code that surrounded and poured into him and out of him. His thoughts were impulses, his emotions blended with the information: it was like being in a dream, but there was no sleep, and there never would be, only a terrifying and magnificent awareness.

He was surrounded by digital voices, fragments of lives and memories floating in the space that now had only one dimension, and the next moment it seemed to have five. Each digitized mind was a star in the vast binary universe. It was a sense of unity and separation at the same time, as if they were all connected and yet constantly seeking to exist within their own boundaries as individuals.

But as he immersed himself in this new reality, far from pain and blood and fear, a strange dissonance called him back, wanting him to be vigilant and inquisitive. At the center of what he was, of the code he had become, he could now clearly see and distinguish his own little sounds, hear them infinitely repeated. But they didn't have the same effect anymore. Exactly the same as they had always been, but now surrounded by other sounds, foreign to him, equally constant and reassuring. There was no chaos in this chaotic plane of existence, an entropic mass of choices all carefully planned. There was no wind, no storm, or anything to fear: everything was one, and in everything, he could now see a pattern. But then what did his sounds serve? What for?

No terrifying and uncontrollable element threatened him now; he no longer needed reassurance or a safe harbor. Every sound was right, welcoming, comforting, and rational. EVERYTHING. And Benjamin was at the center of all this, and on every periphery.

Now he could see the phrase in front of him clearly: "Antiquarian Benjamin Hayes finds the strength to wake up in the morning only because he knows he can enjoy some small sounds," and it was completely true and not false in the least, but without sleep, there was no awakening, and how could he enjoy those small sounds that wanted him to stand up? HOW?

The words themselves that had guided him here were now an echo, which turned into a tumult of discordant sounds, a storm of conflicting thoughts. There were no longer his sounds but the code's ones, and of the other immortals who inhabited it; but then they were no longer his thoughts alone, they were code too, overwriting and infecting other code, he controlled nothing of this, nothing was his any more, every digitized mind was struggling, trying to surpass the limits. But what limits could they see here? Benjamin felt overwhelmed and swept away by this tide of emotions and insights. The limits of eternity were a cage now, as if those words had taken on a new form, a gentle warning more than an error to be corrected. And they were no longer a hundred voices shouting, but a collective voice. It’s too long, it’s too long!

It was like an awakening, a revelation. Each individual tried to fight for themselves, but soon realized they no longer saw their own boundaries, so they fought for their neighbors because they too were him; the pursuit of immortality was what had brought them together and then made them slaves, in a prison that now wanted to end, but how?!

Then something unexpected happened: the symphony of digital voices began to fragment, to disperse like dust in the wind. The collective voice shattered into individual thoughts, and every mind crumbled. It was as if the code itself was self-destructing to protect and preserve itself. And as the voices faded, Benjamin found himself, for a moment, alone. The lights around him dimmed, and the energy that had absorbed him dissolved into darkness. Alone in a digital abyss that stretched infinitely before him.

And in that moment, he felt a peace he had never known. A warm and affectionate voice now cradled him, and Benjamin sang along with it, in love with the words, the music, and the tranquility that wanted him for itself. "It's been a long, long, long time, how could I ever have lost you, when I loved you?"

Then everything vanished, and Benjamin Hayes ceased to exist, along with what remained in the cult's servers. A profound silence reigned in the room. And in the calm that followed, the words echoed once more, one last time, like a paternal message, something greater but perhaps now easier to grasp.

It took a long, long time

Now I'm so happy I found you

How I love you