The mornings in Paris are always a bit chilly.
Even in summer, the wind carries moisture from the Seine, bringing a slightly out-of-place coolness.
I like this kind of chill, reminiscent of the mornings in Shanghai when I was a child, when my mother would cook a pot of porridge in the kitchen, filling the house with warmth, while outside it was always cold. I would lean against the glass and watch the mist slowly dissipate—this interplay of hot and cold feels like many of life’s unspeakable matters.
Today, I hadn’t planned to go anywhere, but somehow I found myself wandering into the Paris Science Museum.
I hesitated at the entrance.
To be honest, I don’t particularly like high-tech things.
When I was a child in Hong Kong, I visited the science museum and found it fascinating, but now I feel a bit intimidated by these “smart” machines.
They understand human thoughts too well, making one feel that their little secrets cannot be hidden.
As I entered, the dawn light was just breaking, casting slanted rays on the ground, like a soft milk candy being flattened underfoot.
I suddenly thought of White Rabbit candy.
As a child, there was always a pack of White Rabbit milk candy at home, and the sound of unwrapping the candy was very light, as if afraid of waking something.
I would always keep the wrappers, reluctant to throw them away.
I don’t know why, but in a foreign land, memories of candy always resurface.
I walked into the robot exhibition hall.
The air was filled with a mix of plastic and metal smells.
It was somewhat reminiscent of the fishy smell that stuck to my hands when I played with clay as a child.
The robots stood behind glass cases, coldly looking at you—or rather, they weren’t looking at you at all.
Their faces were made of plastic, and their eyes, like glass beads, sparkled without any expression.
I couldn’t help but wonder, do robots have secrets?
Or do they not need such things as “secrets” at all?
One robot was demonstrating how to greet.
It waved mechanically, producing an electronically synthesized “Bonjour.”
The voice was not particularly gentle, and was even a bit harsh.
I stood in front of it, suddenly thinking, if I told it my secrets, how would it respond?
Would it “understand”? Or would it merely analyze, dissect, and categorize my emotions, filing them away like folders on a computer?
I felt a mix of wanting to laugh and wanting to cry.
Why do we entrust our feelings to machines that cannot feel pain?
Are we really that lonely?
Sometimes in Shanghai, on the subway late at night, the phone signal is intermittent.
I would stare blankly at my phone screen, unable to send messages, and not wanting to look at others’ social media.
That kind of loneliness is like sugar slowly melting in the mouth, the sweetness fading, leaving only a hint of milk flavor and emptiness.
In the Paris Science Museum, children were running around the robots.
A little girl in a floral dress held a lollipop in her hand.
She smiled at the robot, revealing two small canine teeth.
Suddenly, I felt that this scene was very similar to when I watched clay figurine stalls on Nanjing Road as a child.
The clay figurine vendor always propped himself up on the table with his elbow, slowly molding the clay.
The little figures he made had smiles, frowns, and furrowed brows.
As a child, I always wanted to ask the clay figures, “Why don’t you speak?”
Actually, I want to ask the robots the same question now.
Why don’t you speak?
Or rather, why do your words lack warmth?
I walked deeper into the exhibition hall, where the light grew dimmer.
A string of light bulbs hung from the ceiling, like forgotten fruit candies.
Some were lit, while others were out.
The light reflected on the glass floor, rippling like water.
I felt a slight vibration underfoot, like the flow of water beneath a bridge, surging quietly.
I closed my eyes and listened to my breathing.
Sometimes I feel that the secrets within are like flowing water, occasionally creating ripples, but soon returning to calm.
Do you think there is really anyone in this world who can unravel another’s secrets?
I don’t quite believe it.
Even humans often cannot untangle their own knots.
Let alone robots.
Some secrets can only be kept deep inside, like crumpled candy wrappers tucked in an old book.
Occasionally flipping through, one can still catch a hint of sweetness mixed with the scent of paper.
I stood at the end of the exhibition hall for a long time.
Occasionally, someone would pass by, their footsteps light.
A boy quietly asked his mother, “Do robots dream?”
The mother smiled but did not answer.
I remembered discussing artificial intelligence with my professor while studying in the United States.
He said that machines have no soul, but they can simulate human emotions.
I was skeptical at the time.
Now, looking back, maybe he was right, or maybe he wasn’t.
Who can say for sure?
The night gradually deepened.
As I left the science museum, it was already dark.
The streetlights cast long shadows, reminiscent of my childhood on Qingming Bridge, where the sunset stretched my shadow thin, as if it could reach back to some day in the past.
The sound of water came from afar, somewhat like the drainage in the old alleys of Shanghai, and also like the drainage ditches on rainy nights in Hong Kong.
Every city has its own sound of water at night.
I put my hands in my pockets and felt a piece of fruit candy.
The wrapper was a bit crumpled, probably from when I bought it on Nanchang Street, and I hadn’t had the heart to eat it yet.
I squeezed it and tucked it back into my pocket.
Some things are meant to be savored slowly.
Like memories, like secrets.
You ask me if robots can unravel my secrets?
Perhaps.
But I prefer to believe that only I can reconcile with my past.
The night wind blew, carrying a hint of Paris’s unique dampness and strangeness.
I tightened my coat and walked forward.
Each step echoed on the cobblestone road, the sound very real.
This is life.
Some secrets, even if they cannot be unraveled, we slowly learn to let go.
It’s better to give oneself a piece of candy, a little sweeter, a little warmer.
And keep moving forward.