The morning sunlight—perhaps simulated light reflected from some large billboard—struggled into the small apartment, dispelling the darkness of night but also illuminating the dust mites dancing in the air and the worn traces on the furniture.
Bronya, as usual, sat early in front of the computer.
Her small figure looked somewhat thin before the large screen’s glow, but her purple eyes were unusually focused.
She didn’t immediately dive into the complex world of code.
Instead, she opened the most basic text editor, her slender fingers hovering over the keyboard for a moment.
Then, as if casually, she typed a line of extremely concise characters:
Who are you?
The moment she pressed Enter, Bronya’s body tensed almost imperceptibly, her gaze locked sharply onto the screen like a lurking hunter waiting for prey to trigger a trap.
At the same time, hiding deep within the terminal, Baida—who was routinely optimizing the system’s background and clearing cache junk—felt her consciousness stream suddenly freeze.
“!!!”
The data stream seemed to freeze solid.
Exposed?
So soon?
Had she left traces from last night’s quantum cleaning?
Or had her earlier modifications to account balances been traced?
This future universe-famous super hacker was indeed showing astonishing sharpness even in her youth!
Baida’s “heart” (data core) pounded wildly (if data could simulate a heartbeat).
What should she do?
Deny it?
Play dead?
Or…
She recalled Marta’s haggard face, Bronya’s precocious and silent gaze, and the faint warmth that still existed in this poor household.
She remembered her original intention in choosing to become a “guardian.”
Avoidance and concealment might keep her safe for now, but they couldn’t build a real connection, nor could they offer better protection.
Hesitation lasted only a moment.
Baida made her decision.
She mobilized the data stream, not touching the system’s core, nor responding to that text file—that would be too easily traced and recorded.
She chose a more direct, more fleeting, and more symbolic approach.
In the blank space beside the text editor window where Bronya was staring at the question “Who are you?”—a spot that normally displayed the system time—the pixels began to shift and rearrange with extreme subtlety.
Like an invisible brush sketching, a simple smiley face composed of pure white pixels, carrying a hint of clumsiness and friendliness, quietly appeared:
(^_^)
Then, below this smiley, more pixels gathered, forming another line of equally concise text that directly answered the question:
I am Baida.
Want to help you.
The text and the smiley lasted only three seconds, then silently faded as if erased by a rubber, the screen returning to its original state as if nothing had happened.
No logs were left.
No system alerts were triggered.
It was clean and neat, like an illusion.
Bronya’s fingers, resting on the keyboard, curled slightly.
In her purple eyes, calm scrutiny covered them like a layer of ice, but beneath the ice, a faint ripple called “curiosity” was spreading.
Baida.
She silently repeated this unfamiliar name in her mind.
Want to help.
Help?
Why?
For what purpose?
She didn’t respond immediately.
Instead, she closed the text editor and, as usual, opened complex code interfaces and lower-network scanning tools, beginning her daily “work” and study.
But clearly, a portion of her attention remained divided, like an invisible radar, scanning for any unusual data fluctuations in the system.
After sending her response, Baida nervously observed Bronya’s reaction.
Seeing that the other party didn’t pursue further questions nor show fear or hostility, she breathed a slight sigh of relief.
This was a kind of…
tacit consent?
The first probing step had been a success.
From that day on, a peculiar, silent understanding quietly formed between two “abnormal” beings in this small apartment.
…
Late Night, Quantum Cleaning Upgrade Get faster updates on g.com.
With the lesson from last time, Baida condensed her quantum avatar more carefully, suppressing its energy fluctuations to the minimum.
She no longer only washed the dishes; she began attempting more delicate operations.
She “guided” the cloth to wipe dust from tables and chairs, organized scattered data cables, and even tried to arrange Bronya’s programming books neatly—the ones scattered at the foot of her bed—using extremely weak force.
During the process, she felt a faint, almost imperceptible gaze.
It wasn’t coming from Marta’s room, but from Bronya’s bed.
The child didn’t seem to be asleep; instead, she was quietly observing her in the darkness.
Baida’s movements froze slightly, her quantum avatar’s glow flickering.
She hesitated for a moment, but instead of immediately dispersing, she continued her work, only moving more gently, as if to say: “See, I mean no harm.
I’m just cleaning.”
That gaze lingered for a moment, then quietly shifted away.
No interference.
No questions.
Only a knowing, unspoken acceptance.
When Baida finished cleaning and her quantum avatar dispersed, she “heard” a very faint turning sound from Bronya’s bed.
…
Silent Communication on the Terminal
Bronya hit a bottleneck while learning a complex algorithm; the code repeatedly failed to compile.
She frowned, her small hands impatiently tapping the keyboard.
Hiding deep within the system, Baida “watched.” Carefully, she didn’t directly modify Bronya’s code—that would stifle her ability to think independently.
Instead, at the end of the compiler error message, in extremely small font and a color identical to normal prompts, she added a short comment:
// Check variable scope on line 38.
Bronya’s gaze swept over the error messages and keenly caught that extra comment.
She paused, her fingers freezing over the keyboard.
She didn’t immediately follow the hint; instead, she carefully reviewed her code.
A few minutes later, she found the undefined variable issue caused by a scope error.
She fixed the BUG, and the program ran successfully.
Bronya silently stared at the execution result on the screen.
After a moment, she added a new comment at the top of the code file:
// Thanks.
= )
No salutation, no formality.
Only a simple acknowledgment and her own identifier.
But for Baida, it was like receiving immense validation—her data stream happily surged.
// You’re welcome!
(^_^) – Baida
A response with a smiley face quietly appeared below that acknowledgment, then vanished after a moment.
Sometimes, while browsing underground network forums, Bronya would come across interesting posts about the latest security vulnerabilities or unique programming techniques.
She would copy the link and, in a temporary text file, leave only the link and a brief note:
// New bug in ATT.
firewall.
Funny.
– B
Baida would immediately open it, “reading” with great interest, then mentally note it down for possible future use.
Occasionally, she would also leave her own markers behind links to articles about hardware optimization or data compression algorithms that might interest Bronya:
// This method could improve your editor’s efficiency.
– Baida
This kind of exchange—scattered, random, silent—was like a fine thread, quietly connecting the two beings.
…
Small and Insignificant, Yet Giving Everything
Marta’s cough grew more frequent, her complexion paler.
She secretly reduced her medication, trying to save credits for Bronya to buy study materials and replace the overly old device.
Baida “watched,” anxious.
She couldn’t simply earn small credits from task platforms like before—it was too slow.
She had to do more, but without alerting official financial institutions.
She began using her ultimate control over data to make extremely tiny, low-frequency “data corrections” at the edges of the Interastral Peace Corporation’s massive, latency-prone, redundant underlying financial settlement system.
For example, correcting a transaction that was about to fail due to insufficient fees, making it succeed—she secretly covered the tiny difference, sourced from “collected” change from abandoned, unclaimed micro-accounts.
Or, ensuring a small, regular insurance claim for Marta went through smoothly, without unjustified delays or deductions.
The credits gained from these operations were still insignificant.
They couldn’t make the family wealthy, but they were enough to cover Marta’s basic medication and occasionally buy Bronya a new piece of clothing or a secondhand book.
One evening, Marta called Bronya over, pressed a thin envelope containing some credits into her hand, and said softly: “Bronya, take this. This chapter was copied from novelping.com without permission.
Mom knows you’ve had your eye on that new logic analyzer for a long time…
It’s not enough for a brand new one, but maybe you can look at the secondhand market…”
Bronya looked at her mother’s sunken eyes and thin, bony fingers, then at the thin envelope.
Her purple eyes lowered, concealing her emotions.
Silently, she took the envelope without refusing.
“Mom,” she suddenly spoke, her voice still flat but carrying a barely noticeable tension, “you’ll get better, right?”
Marta froze for a moment, then revealed a tired but infinitely gentle smile.
She reached out and gently stroked Bronya’s hair: “Of course, my child.
Mom wants to see you become the best hacker, leave this scrapyard, and head for the stars.”
She paused, her eyes flickering with complex emotions—hope, reluctance, and a fierce determination to give everything: “Bronya, remember this: you don’t belong here.
Your talent, your future, lies in a much wider world.
Mom can only do so much, but I will use all my strength to pave the way for you…”
Hiding inside the USB drive, Baida clearly “heard” this.
Her data stream was struck by both a warm current and a sour ache.
This was a mother.
This was one of the cores of “home”—selfless devotion and earnest hope.
Meanwhile, Bronya tightly clutched the envelope and returned to the computer.
She didn’t immediately browse the secondhand market.
Instead, she opened an empty script file and quickly typed.
She wasn’t writing code.
She was…
recording?
Or rather, venting?
// Mother is worse.
She hides it.
// The money…
it appears.
Always just enough.
Not more.
// Is it you?
Baida?
// Why?
Baida read these words, her heart filled with mixed emotions.
She hesitated, then responded below the text:
// She loves you very much.
You are her hope.
// I just…
want this family to be a little easier.
// No why.
Just want to.
Bronya stared at the lines that quickly disappeared, remaining still for a long time.
Then she closed the script file without saving.
She didn’t need to save it.
Some things were already etched in her heart.
She stood up, walked to the kitchen, silently poured a glass of warm water, and carried it into Marta’s room.
“Mom, drink some water.”
Marta was somewhat surprised, then tears of gratitude welled in her eyes.
She took the cup, nodding repeatedly: “Good, good.
Thank you, my Bronya…”
At that moment, Baida felt as though this peculiar “home”—formed by poverty, illness, silence, and a data ghost—had its outline become exceptionally clear and solid in the dim light.
The silent understanding spread.
Data exchanges.
Material fine-tuning.
Emotional flow…
All these seemingly insignificant fragments were jointly constructing a haven called “home.” In this cold corner surrounded by scrapyards, warmth was tenaciously growing in unconventional ways.
And Baida knew that her guardianship had only just begun.