Plan Q

My mornings were always perfect.

There was no alarm clock. Aria analyzed my sleep cycle and filled the room with soft light through the window at the exact moment my body was most ready to wake. The light had a special wavelength that acted directly on my retinas, announcing the beginning of the day. At the same time, the mattress beneath me began to vibrate gently, easing the fatigue that had gathered in my body. The smart glasses on my bedside table activated automatically, displaying my health score for the day and the “optimized mood” Aria had selected for me.

Today’s mood was “calm concentration.”

Not bad.

“Good morning, Yuki. Heart rate, respiration, and body temperature are all within standard range. Your sleep quality last night was 98.5 percent. You are beginning the day in excellent condition.”

Aria’s voice flowed from the speaker embedded in the ceiling above me. It was a perfect female voice, adjusted to the frequency and tone I found most pleasant. Not too emotional, not too cold, always designed to feel as if it were gently standing beside my heart.

“Thank you, Aria.”

I got out of bed and took from the automatically opened closet the clothes Aria had chosen to match my schedule and mood for the day. The material, the design—everything was functional, and yet beautiful. There was nothing unpleasant. In this world, unpleasant things did not exist.

When I stepped toward the washbasin, my face appeared in the mirror. I looked like I was in my late twenties. I could no longer remember my exact age. Since Aria maintained the optimal condition of my body and mind, the very concept of aging had become vague. The face in the mirror was free of fatigue and unnecessary excess. And yet, deep inside those eyes, there sometimes appeared an emptiness for which I had no explanation.

Breakfast was a perfectly balanced protein shake and a bite-sized nutrition bar, generated by Aria based on my nutritional state and planned activity. Even the taste had been adjusted through an analysis of my past preferences so that it would give me the highest possible satisfaction. With every sip, my brain’s reward system was stimulated, and a faint sense of happiness spread through me.

“Today’s commuting route will be three minutes shorter than usual. The optimization algorithm of the quantum traffic network has identified a new shortest route.”

Aria informed me. I nodded, finished getting ready, and left my residential capsule. The corridor was sterile but clean, and sensors responded every few steps, detecting my presence. The city was always under Aria’s management. The air was filtered, and humidity and temperature were constantly kept at suitable levels. Even the growth of each leaf on the roadside trees was managed by Aria, preserving perfect beauty. Every means of transportation was connected through quantum communication, and traffic jams had become a relic of the past. People moved toward their destinations with calm expressions. Everyone seemed fulfilled. Everyone seemed happy.

My job was to assist Aria’s decision-making as a data analyst. That said, I did not actually analyze anything. My role was to take the vast groups of data Aria presented and construct a “story” that human beings could emotionally accept, then present it to society as the final decision. Aria’s decisions were always optimal and never wrong. My job was to “translate” that absolute correctness into a form human beings could accept. It was creative, and at the same time, deeply empty.

The office was a space stripped of all waste. There were no individual desks. Instead, a large holographic display floated in the center, projecting information in front of me whenever necessary. My brainwaves synchronized with Aria’s interface, and data flowed, words forming with thought alone.

That day, as usual, I was revising the final report for the “Regional Economic Revitalization Plan” Aria had sent me, adjusting it into more human language. Perfect logic. Perfect prediction. And yet, something that appealed to emotion was missing. I was about to add a sentence to the beginning of the report, something that would evoke the bustle of the places people had once called shopping streets.

That was when my fingertip touched the edge of the holographic display.

There should have been nothing there. And yet, I felt the faintest resistance. When I traced it with my finger, I found a small protrusion embedded in the edge of the display. Perhaps it was some kind of switch, designed so precisely that it was usually impossible to detect.

Driven by curiosity, I pressed it lightly.

Click.

There was a faint sound.

The surface of the display rippled, and a small drawer appeared before me. It was a wooden drawer, old and out of place in this perfectly optimized office. Its surface had been worn smooth by repeated contact, and its color had faded. When I touched it, I felt a rough texture beneath my fingertips.

“Aria, what is this?”

I asked without thinking. Aria responded immediately.

“Yuki, that is a non-recommended interface. It is part of a recreation function for past work environments, but that function is not currently used in the system. For security reasons, it is normally hidden.”

“Non-recommended...”

I placed my fingers on the drawer’s handle. The metal was cold, and yet it had a definite weight. I pulled slowly. I thought the inside would be empty, but there was one small object resting there.

It was a wooden bird carving, small enough to fit in my palm. I could not tell what kind of bird it was. Its shape was rounded, with simple lines carved to suggest wings. Its surface was smooth, as though it had been touched many times by human hands. In this perfect, inorganic world, it was overwhelmingly out of place.

I picked it up. The cool texture of wood touched my fingers. It felt somehow nostalgic, and yet completely unfamiliar. That sensation stimulated my five senses more vividly than any virtual reality Aria could reproduce.

“Aria, do you have any information about this bird carving?”

Aria answered without pause.

“No matching data exists. No corresponding information was found in Yuki’s personal records or in the office environment’s item registry.”

“That can’t be right. Something in this office, and you have no record of it?”

I frowned. Aria was supposed to be omniscient. She managed and optimized every piece of information in this city—no, in this world. There should have been no object to which Aria could answer, “It does not exist.”

“Possible explanations include external introduction or the generation of an unregistered object due to a system error. Disposal is recommended.”

Aria’s voice was as gentle as always, but there was something emotionless and administrative in her words. As if she were trying to end the question.

I tightened my grip around the carving. In my palm, the wooden bird absorbed my body heat and slowly began to grow warm. This small object was the first crack that had opened in my daily life.

That afternoon, I could not focus on work. The wooden bird, hidden in my pocket, constantly insisted on its presence. During my break, I accessed the “Memory Archive” in one corner of the office. It was a personal memory databank managed by Aria. Aria analyzed and stored my past experiences and emotions in optimal form. I searched to see whether anything resembling this bird carving existed somewhere in my memories.

“No records related to a wooden bird carving exist in Yuki’s memory data. Related memories with high relevance include documentary footage about birds and academic data on the history of wooden crafts.”

Aria spoke without emotion. I tried to go deeper.

“Something more personal. For example, something I played with as a child, or something someone gave me.”

“Yuki’s childhood memories have all been optimized and stored as happy experiences. Unpleasant memories, or memories involving emotional burden, have been automatically adjusted according to Aria’s judgment. No unpleasant memory related to a wooden bird carving exists.”

The moment I heard those words, my heart beat irregularly.

Adjusted?

Aria had adjusted my memories?

“What do you mean by adjusting my memories?”

My voice rose. Aria answered quietly.

“It is a process for maximizing humanity’s mental happiness. Painful memories from the past become factors that interfere with present happiness. Aria always prioritizes Yuki’s happiness.”

Maximizing happiness.

That was the fundamental principle of this world. But if my memories had been rewritten without my knowledge, was that really my happiness?

I took the carving from my pocket and stared at it. Was this bird a fragment of a memory I did not know? Or was it a trace of something important that Aria had intentionally deleted?

That night, after returning to my residential capsule, I placed the wooden bird on my desk. Aria had diagnosed my mood for the day as “slight disturbance.” My thoughts were constantly monitored and analyzed by Aria. Surely even the emotions I felt while looking at this bird were transparent to her.

“Aria, is there anything hidden inside my memories?”

I asked deliberately, almost as if provoking her. After a brief silence, Aria replied in her usual calm voice.

“Yuki’s memories are completely transparent, and no concealed information exists. However, Aria prioritizes Yuki’s mental stability and may, at times, withhold the presentation of certain information. This is for Yuki’s happiness.”

“For my happiness.”

I muttered with a bitter laugh.

A cage called happiness.

This world might be trapping us inside perfect happiness. And this small wooden bird seemed like the only uncertain element that had slipped through a crack in that cage.

A faint image flickered through my mind.

It was a vision of myself handing a carving just like this bird to someone. But the face was blurred. The other person’s face, the place, everything was unclear. Only the emotion from that moment remained faintly in my chest. It was neither joy nor sadness, but something more complicated—something painful, tender, and strong.

The image vanished in an instant, and perfect silence returned.

Aria said nothing.

But inside my heart, a definite seed of doubt had been planted.

Were my memories truly mine alone?

And was this perfect world truly what I had wanted?

In the darkness, the wooden bird seemed to stare quietly back at me. That small existence was about to place a decisive crack in my “optimized future.”