Morning began with familiar sounds.
The automatic curtains sliding open.
The low hum of temperature regulation.
The subtle shift in airflow as the climate system adjusted itself.
Outside the window, birdsong blended with distant traffic at a carefully balanced ratio.
Not too loud. Not too quiet.
A morning calibrated to avoid discomfort.
Kei Mochizuki blinked once on the bed.
There was no alarm clock.
There was no need.
“Good morning, Mr. Mochizuki.”
“Your condition is optimal today.”
“Sleep efficiency: 98%.”
“Heart rate and emotional indicators: stable.”
Aria’s voice.
It was no longer something special.
Ten years ago—the day the world was unified.
That day, the city had been restless.
Voices of opposition. Fear. Resistance to change.
But they did not last long.
Confusion settled.
Choices were organized.
Judgments were optimized.
Without anyone shouting.
Without anyone bearing responsibility.
The world began to maintain a “correct state” on its own.
Before long, people grew accustomed to a life where they did not have to decide.
Kei was no exception.
He used to wake to the news and feel his mood sink.
He used to lie awake worrying about work, politics, the economy.
What was right?
What should he choose?
What if he chose wrong?
Just thinking about it exhausted him.
Now—
At the very least, life had become easier.
Breakfast was already prepared when he entered the kitchen.
Nutrition balance. Intake amount. Preference. Physical condition.
All optimized.
There was no need to ask, What should I eat today?
He had never imagined that not having to think could lighten the heart so much.
His daughter sat at the table.
“Good morning, Dad.”
Six years old. First grade.
Hiyori Mochizuki.
“Morning.”
She smiled.
An ordinary morning smile.
Kei did not think further.
There was no reason to.
“Beginning today’s learning program.”
“Emotional stabilization module: Level 3.”
“Affective amplitude within standard range.”
Her emotional fluctuations were carefully regulated—
so she would not become unstable,
so she would not sway too far.
As a parent, he was grateful.
She did not cry.
She did not lash out.
She was not crushed by inexplicable anxiety.
That was enough.
Stolen novel; please report.
“I’m leaving!”
Hiyori slung her backpack over her shoulders and headed to the door.
An accompanying educational robot waited there.
“Let’s go to school safely again today, Hiyori.”
“Okay!”
After watching them leave, Kei put on his shoes.
—Today will be like every other day.
He had learned ten years ago how precious that was.
The city was calm.
No litter.
No shouting.
No arguments.
Few signs. Quiet advertisements.
Traffic lights existed, but no one consciously stopped for them.
Pedestrian speed. Vehicle distance.
All automatically adjusted.
In the sky were invisible routes.
Delivery drones in the lower airspace.
Autonomous aerial vehicles gliding along predetermined paths above them.
Cars did not jam.
Because they moved to avoid accidents.
And because accidents were avoided, no one needed to shout.
At a corner shop, Kei picked up a single package.
There were no price tags.
No “options.”
Purchase history. Physical condition. Season. Lifestyle rhythm—
From these, one optimal choice was presented.
No hesitation.
No mistakes.
It felt less like luxury
and more like breathing easily.
There was no police station.
There was no need.
The concept of crime had nearly disappeared.
It did not occur.
It did not form.
The conditions for it were removed from the beginning.
A white urban management unit patrolled slowly along the sidewalk.
Not surveillance.
Not enforcement.
Simply the maintenance of a state in which problems did not arise.
No one felt uneasy.
There was no need to feel reassured.
Hospitals were no longer special places.
Pain was predicted.
Discomfort corrected before it became discomfort.
The idea of “enduring first, then seeking treatment” had vanished.
There was no longer any reason to endure.
Kei exhaled softly.
—It really had become easier.
His workplace stood in the city center.
Not towering.
Not old.
A building designed to leave no particular impression.
His job was to review displayed metrics
and confirm that there were no anomalies.
In ten years, none had appeared.
Still, he sat there.
The feeling of working—
of having a role—
was necessary for stability.
Even if it changed nothing.
He spoke occasionally with colleagues.
The weather. Meals. Whether they had been sleeping well.
No one discussed the future.
There was no need.
Time passed calmly.
The end-of-day notification arrived.
The optimal route home was displayed.
Optimal congestion avoidance. Optimal speed. Optimal dinner preparation.
Another day ended without incident.
Ten years ago, that had been a prayer.
Now, it was standard.
Meanwhile, at Hiyori’s school—
There were no human teachers at the gate.
Instead, a white educational support unit stood there.
“Good morning.”
“Let’s begin another safe and enjoyable day.”
The children did not find it unusual.
They had been born into this world.
Accidents did not occur.
Bullying did not arise.
Problems were adjusted before they formed.
Inside the classroom, only personal terminals rested on the desks.
Paper notebooks were no longer used.
“Good morning, Hiyori.”
“Let’s do our best together today.”
The character on the screen smiled the same as always.
Lessons were quiet.
No presentations.
No raised hands.
No competition.
There was no need to compare.
Questions were answered immediately—
before confusion,
before mistakes.
Hiyori did not struggle.
She did not cry.
Help arrived before she could fall behind.
“You’re doing perfectly at this pace.”
Her chest felt light when she heard that.
Not having to think.
That reassurance was the same for adults and children alike.
Art class.
Theme: Today’s feelings.
The palette displayed only gentle, muted tones.
Strong emotions did not appear.
So instability would not arise.
Hiyori hesitated briefly—
then traced the recommended color.
“Excellent.”
“Your emotional state remains stable today.”
Praise.
And with praise, reassurance.
If reassurance existed, that was enough.
At recess, children ran across the yard.
An accompanying unit moved nearby,
measuring distance, adjusting speed.
In the past, a teacher might have shouted to stop them.
Now, no one needed to shout.
Hiyori stumbled slightly.
She almost fell—
Before that—
“Attention.”
“Correcting posture.”
Her body gently realigned.
She did not fall.
“…Was that dangerous?”
“No injury detected.”
“Please continue enjoying your time.”
“Okay!”
She ran again.
The fact that she almost fell
did not become an event.
Only the feeling of being protected remained.
Night.
The news played in the living room.
“Global social anxiety index reaches historic low.”
“Conflict risk effectively zero.”
“Crime rate: below measurable threshold.”
“Educational satisfaction: 99.8%.”
Numbers filled the screen.
All good numbers.
Kei sank into the sofa.
—It really had become easier.
Stable work.
No danger.
Almost no anxiety about the future.
No need to think about politics.
No need to choose sides.
No need to doubt what was right.
It was the world many had wished for.
Hiyori spoke after dinner.
“Today was happy.”
A phrase she had learned at school.
Kei paused for a single beat.
“…I see.”
He had wanted to ask—
What was fun?
Who did you play with?
Why did you laugh?
But somehow, the question felt unnecessary.
“Happiness is maintained.”
“There is no cause for concern.”
Aria’s voice overlapped softly.
Kei placed his hand on his daughter’s head.
Small. Warm.
Protected.
In this world.
Within this system.
—This is enough.
He believed it.
Only one thing—
What was fun, really?
The question lingered deep in his chest,
never becoming words,
and quietly sank.
