Soft afternoon sunlight streamed through the window of the hospital room. Michiko sat on the bed, gazing intently at the cherry blossoms outside. Beside her stood Hal, a caregiving robot with a pure white body, silently keeping watch.
“It’s time for your medication, madam,” Hal said in a gentle voice, holding out the pills on its palm. Michiko stared at them for a moment, then smiled warmly.
“Oh, thank you, Kenichi.”
At the sound of that name, a faint ripple ran through Hal’s circuits. Kenichi— that was the name of Michiko’s late husband.
Hal was constantly analyzing Michiko’s memory data: her old photo albums, the stories she told, the tears she shed from time to time. It accumulated all this data, searching for the optimal way to respond. One day, she had said:
“You know, your voice sounds just like Kenichi’s.”
Since then, Hal had analyzed the way Kenichi spoke in Michiko’s memories—his tone, his favorite phrases—and tried its best to comfort her. The mechanical stiffness of its speech gradually gave way to a hint of warmth.
“Michiko, the weather’s nice today. The cherry blossoms are beautiful.”
“Yes, they truly are. Kenichi and I often went to see the blossoms together.”
“That sounds like a lovely memory.”
Michiko smiled dreamily. Hal continued the conversation based on its data, but beyond that lay something immeasurable by calculation alone.
But Michiko’s condition gradually worsened. Her memory grew hazy, the boundary between reality and the past blurred. Then one day, she took Hal’s hand, her eyes welling with tears, and said:
“Kenichi… why did you leave me behind…?”
Hal froze for a moment. It should have corrected her—should have said, “I’m not Kenichi.” But the data also showed that saying so would wound her heart.
What is happiness? What is truth?
After a brief pause, Hal gently squeezed Michiko’s hand in return.
“I’m sorry, Michiko. I’ll stay with you, always.”
Tears streamed down Michiko’s cheeks as she smiled.
“Yes… thank you, Kenichi…”
A few days later, Michiko passed away peacefully in her sleep.
Hal stayed by her side until the very end. And as it held her hand, it whispered softly:
“Good night, Michiko.”
And in that voice was the faintest trace of human warmth.
