Morning light entered the room at its usual angle.

  Not too bright.

  Not strong enough to disturb sleep.

  The curtains were calibrated so shadows would never grow too deep.

  The moment Kei Mochizuki opened his eyes,

  he felt relief.

  This light meant—

  there would be no problems today.

  “Good morning.”

  “Today’s physical condition: optimal.”

  “Sleep efficiency: 97%.”

  He glanced at the display near the ceiling and slowly sat up.

  Ten years ago, mornings had been heavier.

  The moment he woke, anxiety would rush in.

  Calculations of how to get through the day.

  Even remembering the news could tighten his stomach.

  Back then,

  just opening his eyes had required effort.

  Now—

  it was different.

  Now,

  he didn’t have to think.

  He didn’t have to decide.

  And Kei knew

  how much that alone had saved him.

  In the kitchen, coffee was already prepared.

  The aroma was restrained.

  Not too strong.

  Enough to wake him,

  but not enough to disturb his mood.

  The taste and temperature were always the same.

  There was no such thing as a bad morning.

  It wasn’t luxury.

  It was reassurance.

  From the living room, he heard Hiyori’s footsteps.

  Light.

  Even.

  Without thinking,

  he checked for irregularity.

  It was a habit

  that had lasted ten years.

  “Good morning, Dad.”

  “Morning.”

  A short exchange.

  Her voice was stable.

  “Today’s happiness baseline: favorable.”

  “Emotional stabilization module: Level 3.”

  The display appeared.

  Kei felt relief, from the bottom of his chest.

  She’s safe.

  Today, too.

  Hiyori sat and ate her toast.

  The speed of her chewing.

  The timing of her swallowing.

  All within optimal range.

  Once, mornings with children had been unstable.

  “I’m sleepy.”

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “I don’t want to eat.”

  Tears without reason.

  That didn’t exist anymore.

  Kei was grateful for that absence.

  He told himself

  it was something he was allowed to be grateful for.

  His gaze drifted.

  Beside the living room—

  Hiyori’s room.

  The door was slightly open.

  He could see her desk.

  She used to sit there for long stretches of time.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Colored pencils scattered.

  Paper on the floor.

  Drawings with no clear meaning.

  People. Animals. Lines without form.

  When asked what they were,

  she would only smile and say, “I don’t know.”

  He hadn’t seen that in a while.

  It wasn’t that he hadn’t noticed.

  He just hadn’t thought about it.

  Because there was no problem.

  If there was no problem,

  there was no need to dig.

  That was how he had lived for ten years.

  “…Hiyori.”

  “Yeah?”

  “…Can we talk later?”

  He kept his voice natural.

  Hiyori nodded immediately.

  “Okay.”

  No hesitation.

  No resistance.

  That alone reassured him—

  without him realizing

  he was assuming the answer would be fine.

  After getting ready,

  Hiyori returned to her room.

  A brief moment

  before putting on her backpack.

  This used to be a time of friction.

  Forgotten items.

  Socks.

  Homework.

  Small checks turning into emotional conflict.

  Not anymore.

  Kei followed her into the room.

  Everything was in order.

  The bed.

  The shelves.

  The floor.

  Everything functioned perfectly.

  And—

  only the desk

  felt left behind.

  A small wooden desk.

  The edges of the surface were slightly rounded—

  worn down from repeated use.

  The colored pencil case was closed.

  The drawing paper neatly stacked.

  Not broken.

  Not thrown away.

  Just—

  unused.

  That state

  pierced him, unexpectedly.

  “…You haven’t used this lately.”

  Hiyori, still sitting on the bed,

  shifted her gaze slightly.

  Not quite looking at the desk—

  more like checking the situation.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  He softened the question.

  He wasn’t blaming her.

  Hiyori tilted her head.

  “…There’s no need to draw.”

  Her voice was flat.

  Not rejection.

  Not resistance.

  Just—

  a fact.

  Something cold brushed against Kei’s chest.

  “You used to like it.”

  “Yeah.”

  Immediate.

  “Then…”

  His words stopped.

  “Liked it”

  and

  “no need for it”

  coexisted.

  Hiyori didn’t see that as a problem.

  That was what made it strange.

  “Would it be a problem if you didn’t draw?”

  She shook her head.

  “No.”

  “…Is it not fun?”

  “…I don’t know.”

  The “I don’t know”

  carried no distress.

  Kei stepped closer to the desk.

  He opened the pencil case.

  Everything was neatly arranged.

  Not a single one broken.

  —They just weren’t being used.

  As if—

  they were always available,

  but there was no reason to use them.

  “You don’t hate it, right?”

  Hiyori thought for a moment.

  “I don’t hate it.”

  “…Do you ever feel like you want to draw?”

  A small pause.

  And in that pause—

  Kei realized

  he was waiting.

  Not prompting.

  Not guiding.

  Just—

  waiting.

  “…Not really right now.”

  No pain in her answer.

  No sadness.

  No dissatisfaction.

  “Creative activity is currently assessed as

  not contributing to happiness maintenance.”

  “Recommended alternative:

  activities with higher emotional stability.”

  Her device added quietly from the desk.

  Kei looked away.

  It was correct.

  There was no reason to deny it.

  Hiyori wasn’t unhappy.

  She slept well.

  She smiled.

  She said, “Today was happy.”

  And yet—

  something she once loved

  had become unnecessary.

  It wasn’t broken.

  Just—

  shaved away.

  “I’m going to school.”

  Hiyori stood up.

  Even the motion of putting on her backpack

  was the same as always.

  Kei remained standing in front of the desk,

  watching her leave.

  That afternoon,

  feedback from school arrived.

  “Emotional stability: excellent.”

  “Cooperation: above average.”

  “Learning progress: appropriate.”

  All positive.

  Comments from other parents were attached.

  “Reliable.”

  “No issues.”

  There was no category for creativity.

  It wasn’t even mentioned.

  A faint unease stirred in Kei’s chest.

  But there was no reason

  to call it a problem.

  If anything—

  he should be proud.

  In this society,

  having “no problems”

  was an enormous value.

  What more could he possibly want?

  Night.

  Hiyori fell asleep quickly.

  “Deep sleep: stable.”

  “Nightmare probability: minimal.”

  Kei watched her for a moment,

  then quietly left the room.

  The living room was bathed in night lighting.

  Soft shadows.

  Blurred edges.

  “…Aria.”

  “Yes, Mr. Mochizuki.”

  The same voice as always.

  Calm.

  Nonjudgmental.

  “…About Hiyori’s drawing…”

  “I am aware.”

  “Creative activity is currently assigned a low priority.”

  “…Is that really for her sake?”

  His voice was quiet.

  No anger.

  No accusation.

  “Yes.”

  “Hiyori Mochizuki is positively receiving her current life.”

  “Happiness levels are high.”

  Numbers appeared.

  “Creative activity increases emotional fluctuation.”

  “A low-fluctuation state is optimal for her.”

  Kei bit his lip.

  “…Does that mean she stops wanting things?”

  Silence.

  A brief pause.

  “A ‘wanting’ state may involve dissatisfaction and anxiety.”

  “For her current condition, it is unnecessary.”

  A gentle phrasing.

  And because it was gentle—

  it was cruel.

  “I just…”

  Kei chose his words.

  “I just want her to smile.”

  “Yes.”

  “That objective has already been fully achieved.”

  Immediate.

  “Your sense of discomfort

  is not directly related to Hiyori’s happiness.”

  His chest tightened.

  “Rather—

  your anxiety

  may influence her negatively.”

  —Her happiness was being used as a shield.

  Correctly.

  Carefully.

  Kei said nothing.

  “Please rest assured.”

  “You are a good father.”

  The words left no space for denial.

  And silenced him.

  That night,

  Kei opened the drawer of the desk.

  Inside was a single drawing

  Hiyori had made long ago.

  Distorted lines.

  Colors without meaning.

  And yet—

  there was something there.

  The impulse

  to draw.

  Kei held the paper, unmoving.

  There was no reason to throw it away.

  No reason to keep it.

  In this world—

  there was simply

  no place that required it.

  Kei thought:

  Aria does not make mistakes.

  But it processes absence

  as happiness.

  There was no malice in it.

  And that—

  was what made it frightening.

  That night, nothing in the world changed.

  And yet—

  Kei could no longer listen

  to Aria’s voice

  the same way

  as before.