Author: Shinya Kato

I click.
The system thinks.
Between shifts at the hospital, I sit at a terminal with my hand resting on the mouse. Faces pass behind me—colleagues, patients, families—and lately they look unfamiliar, like another species of ape that has misplaced something essential.

The AI generates diagnoses, probabilities, and optimized plans. My role is simpler. I confirm. Approve. Acknowledge. The machine thinks; I click. No understanding is required—only repetition.

Human intelligence built this system and, in doing so, learned to wait. Thought moved into circuits. Bodies remained.

The AI returns answers—immediate, complete. It does not hesitate. It does not wonder. It does not feel the urgency of a question.

Within a brief lifespan, we imagine eternity. We ask what cannot be answered—at bedsides, in stairwells, in the dark before sleep. We face sunsets as if they were doors. I have watched the AI compose flawless poems and generate perfect images. Precision is not the same as weight. No algorithm feels the shock of a child’s laughter.

We know how humans are born. Awareness is uncertain.

Birth is narrow and blinding. For a moment, perhaps it feels like heaven. Then the body insists: breathe.
Death offers no such instruction.

Near the hospital entrance, a black cat sometimes sits in the wash of the automatic doors. Her name, I learn, is Minuet. She watches people pass without interest, brown eyes translucent in the light. No badge, no sensor, no system records her presence. She exists without permission.

If there is a goddess of chance, she moves like that. Fortuna does not arrive with thunder. She slips through the seam of the automatic doors. When someone bends to touch her, she is already elsewhere.

In Room 614, an older man lies threaded with wires. The AI monitors his vitals, calculating decline. Numbers climb and fall across the screen in disciplined silence.

It estimates the minute of his passing: 14:32.

At 14:31, the black cat slips through the automatic doors. No one notices.

14:32 arrives.
The man keeps breathing.

At 14:33, he opens his eyes and smiles at his daughter.

At 14:34, his breathing thins and stops.

The AI records the change.
Only the daughter feels the silence that follows.

Some imagine heaven as a place beyond the body, connected by invisible threads—a story sufficient for the mind, even if unproven. Perhaps answers are not meant to be solved, only carried.

Future children may laugh and say, “Humans once feared death.”

Future elders may think, “In heaven, I had no body. I did not feel alive. I am glad I was born.”

What this reveals is not the greatness of heaven, but the rarity of living.

Outside, at the edge of the parking lot, Minuet pauses as if listening to something no one else can hear. The doors open. The doors close. No system notes her departure.

I click.
The system thinks.

Somewhere beyond the circuits, Fortuna adjusts the minute by one.