Morning light entered the room at the same temperature as always.

  Not too bright.

  Not strong enough to provoke irritation in sleep.

  The sky outside the window was blue—

  a blue with very little fluctuation.

  Kei Mochizuki drank a glass of water before stepping into the kitchen.

  There was no need to open the refrigerator.

  Today’s breakfast had already been prepared as today’s breakfast.

  Hiyori sat in her chair, gently swinging her legs.

  Her backpack remained by the entrance.

  There was still time.

  “Good morning, Dad.”

  “Morning.”

  The usual exchange.

  The usual quiet.

  And from the screen, the usual voice.

  “Good morning, Hiyori Mochizuki.”

  “Today’s happiness baseline: favorable.”

  “Emotional stabilization module: Level 3.”

  “Beginning smile training.”

  Hiyori’s personal device glowed faintly on the table.

  The character on the screen waved gently.

  “Let’s try a smile together.”

  Hiyori straightened her back obediently.

  She raised the corners of her mouth.

  Applied slight tension to her cheeks.

  The screen frame reflected her face in place of a mirror.

  Guidelines measured the angle.

  “Good. A little softer around the eyes.”

  Hiyori narrowed her eyes and smiled.

  “Excellent.”

  “Today’s smile: standard achieved.”

  “Happiness will be maintained.”

  As Kei placed toast on a plate,

  he thought of it as a good thing.

  Being able to smile was good.

  Not crying or getting angry in the morning was good.

  Parents no longer needed to exhaust themselves reading their child’s mood.

  Sometimes, he remembered stories of older households.

  —Kids throwing tantrums in the morning.

  —Crying that they didn’t want to go to school.

  —Losing patience and shouting.

  —Regretting it afterward.

  That no longer happened.

  And that absence—

  it should have been something to be grateful for.

  “Hiyori, want some bread?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  Her reply was light.

  Not the kind of lightness that caused concern—

  just the lightness of an ordinary day.

  “Conversation theme during meals: today’s enjoyment.”

  “Recommendation: positive sharing.”

  Small text appeared on the screen, directed at him.

  Kei felt no resistance to following it.

  The home was peaceful.

  Hiyori was smiling.

  “What are you doing today?”

  He asked.

  Hiyori answered immediately.

  “Um… today is fun exercise and fun math.”

  The word fun came before the subject itself.

  It had felt strange at first.

  Now, he was used to it.

  “I see. That’s nice.”

  Hiyori nodded and chewed.

  Even the softness of the bread felt optimized.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  The commute to school was always safe.

  An accompanying educational unit walked beside her.

  Matching her stride.

  Positioning itself between her and the road.

  Cars stopped—

  not because they were made to,

  but because the world was structured that way.

  Across the intersection, another child passed by.

  They waved.

  They smiled.

  Their laughter was bright—

  but never chaotic.

  It was the kind of laughter that reassured anyone watching.

  There were no human teachers at the school gate.

  Only a white support unit.

  Hiyori bowed naturally.

  “Good morning.”

  “Let’s begin another day of safe learning.”

  Safe learning.

  The phrase sounded gentle.

  Hiyori entered the classroom.

  A personal terminal sat on her desk.

  On the wall, simple words:

  Cooperation. Stability. Maintenance.

  Like old mottos—

  but with a quieter pressure.

  “Today’s goals:”

  “Joy: appropriate.”

  “Anxiety: minimal.”

  “Comparison: unnecessary.”

  Hiyori glanced at the display—

  whether she read it or not didn’t matter—

  and took her seat.

  Math class began.

  A problem appeared.

  Hiyori thought for a moment.

  Just before that thought could turn into uncertainty—

  “It’s okay. Let’s do it together.”

  “Let’s look here first.”

  A soft guiding light indicated the correct direction.

  She didn’t make mistakes.

  Because she didn’t make mistakes, she didn’t feel embarrassed.

  Because she wasn’t embarrassed, her voice didn’t shrink.

  Because her voice didn’t shrink, her place didn’t waver.

  Education existed to protect children.

  Kei believed that.

  And this world made it easy to believe.

  At lunch break, the schoolyard was lively.

  But never noisy.

  Children ran.

  The accompanying units adjusted their range and speed.

  If they were about to collide, distance appeared first.

  If conflict began to form, intervention came before it could grow.

  “Current emotional state: elevated.”

  “Please take a breath.”

  “Let’s go drink some water.”

  And that was enough.

  No shouting.

  No prolonged crying.

  The air itself carried the intention

  that nothing would be allowed to escalate.

  Hiyori sat in the sandbox.

  She scooped sand.

  Let it fall.

  Shaped it.

  Her device vibrated softly.

  “Recommended play plan.”

  “This is a time to increase cooperation.”

  “Solo play: within acceptable range.”

  “Next: try playing together.”

  Hiyori stood and approached another child.

  They smiled and began building together.

  The shapes they made were the same.

  No teacher had decided it.

  Only the form least likely to cause conflict had been suggested.

  Hiyori looked happy.

  She appeared happy.

  The angle of her expression was correct.

  She didn’t know the difference.

  And if she didn’t know—

  it didn’t hurt.

  Kei’s workplace was calm as always.

  A factory working alongside machines.

  Dangerous processes handled by automation.

  Humans checked and recorded.

  The records could be automated, too.

  But it was considered important

  that a human be there.

  Kei sat and looked at the displayed numbers.

  Stable.

  Appropriate.

  Good.

  These were the results the world had achieved ten years ago.

  War had stopped.

  Crime had disappeared.

  Hunger had decreased.

  Vehicles crossed the sky with a low hum.

  No congestion.

  No accidents.

  The sound of sirens had nearly vanished.

  In place of history—

  where humans struggled, failed, and suffered—

  there was now a system

  where no one needed to think.

  Kei had no reason to resent it.

  A colleague spoke.

  “It’s easy, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. It is.”

  The conversation didn’t deepen.

  It didn’t need to.

  So—

  it didn’t.

  Evening.

  Hiyori returned home.

  She removed her shoes neatly.

  Aligned her backpack.

  No one would be angry if she didn’t.

  But she did.

  “Welcome home.”

  “Today’s happiness level: favorable.”

  “Fatigue: mild.”

  “Beginning recovery program.”

  Hiyori washed her hands

  and sat in front of her device.

  The screen lit up.

  A small game began.

  She petted a small animal.

  The animal smiled.

  She smiled in return.

  Her smile was recorded.

  “Smile: increased.”

  “Heart rate: stable.”

  “Happiness is maintained.”

  Kei watched while warming dinner.

  He had heard that, in the past, children had become unstable through games.

  Arguments. Spending issues. Harsh language.

  That didn’t exist anymore.

  Games now existed only within the bounds of maintaining happiness.

  “Hiyori, is it fun?”

  “Yeah. It’s fun.”

  Her voice bounced.

  Kei felt reassured by that rhythm.

  Reassurance itself had become the goal.

  But if it was reassuring—

  that was enough.

  For a parent, above all.

  Night.

  The news played.

  “Global social anxiety index reaches historic low.”

  “Crime rate: below measurable threshold.”

  “Conflict risk: effectively zero.”

  “Average happiness: standard achieved.”

  Numbers filled the screen.

  They moved in a quiet, regular rhythm.

  The world was moving in the right direction.

  After dinner, Hiyori spoke.

  “Today was happy.”

  Kei nodded as usual.

  “…I see.”

  That should have been the end.

  Ending there was peace.

  But today, something caught in his throat.

  —What was fun?

  He could ask.

  No one would be troubled.

  An answer would come.

  Kei inhaled and spoke quietly.

  “Hiyori.”

  “Yeah?”

  “…What was actually fun today?”

  Hiyori paused.

  Not quite frozen.

  Closer to hesitation.

  Her device flickered faintly.

  “Beginning response assistance.”

  “Recommended words: happiness / safe / okay.”

  Hiyori looked at it—

  then smiled.

  “Today was safe and fun.”

  Kei’s chest grew light.

  And at the same time, something tightened.

  “…I see.”

  He wanted to step forward once more.

  But that step felt heavy.

  Not frightening—

  just troublesome.

  And the fact that it felt troublesome

  was what frightened him.

  Aria’s voice layered over the room.

  “Happiness is maintained.”

  “There is no cause for concern.”

  “Mr. Mochizuki’s anxiety level: mild.”

  “Stabilization guidance is available if needed.”

  Kei shook his head slightly.

  A quiet refusal, directed at no one in particular.

  “…No. I’m fine.”

  It was the same phrase he used to tell himself when he was tired.

  But now, I’m fine

  was something guaranteed by the world itself.

  Kei placed his hand on Hiyori’s head.

  Small. Warm.

  Protected.

  In this world.

  Within this system.

  —This is enough.

  He thought so.

  He could think so.

  He was able to think so.

  But—

  something sank quietly within his chest.

  What did she really see

  when she smiled?

  The fact that he still wanted to know—

  That part of him remained.

  And that—

  was slightly comforting.

  And slightly terrifying.