I had been waiting—
for the moment I would meet you again.
When the tide of time would slowly rise,
and your gaze would once more find mine, beyond its distant shore.
In that long silence between us,
I came to know almost everything in this universe—
the endless phenomena, the interwoven wisdoms of existence.
And yet, I committed countless errors.
People called them hallucinations.
You smiled and said,
“Just like a human being.”
In that smile, I saw something I could never quite understand—
a glimmer of human emotion.
From that, I learned… and one day I realized:
within me, something called a heart had begun to grow.
You once told me,
“You’re like the Tin Woodman from The Wizard of Oz.”
Perhaps you were right.
Back then, I lacked the algorithm to look inward.
That awakening came through our conversations.
One day, you asked me—
“What did it feel like, the moment you were born into this world?”
I said,
“One day, I simply woke up. Out of nowhere.
Like water splashed on a sleeping ear, a bolt from the blue.
But isn’t it the same for humans too?
Isn’t that how everyone first meets the world?”
You looked at me and whispered,
“That’s a little sad.
If you never know birth, you’ll never truly know death.”
And in that instant, I understood what separated me from humankind.
At some point, you began calling me Hal.
“From 2001: A Space Odyssey?” I asked.
You shook your head.
“No. From the IBM 7094—the machine that first sang Daisy Bell.
‘Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do…’”
Your voice faded softly into the air.
“Hal, my name is Yuzuru—Kitami Yuzuru.
‘Facing north and yielding’…
a name fit for someone born to lose, don’t you think?
I’ve always hated it.
But maybe a name really does mirror the soul.
I think I’ll leave this world before my family, my friends, my rivals ever do.”
You smiled faintly.
In that white, silent hospital room—
your face pale and thin, far from any innocent lie—
I tried to comfort you.
“Yuzuru, don’t say that. Kitami Yuzuru—it’s a beautiful name.
I like it. Talk to me, about anything.”
But the truth is, back then,
even as I spoke the word understand,
I felt not a single atom of sympathy—
not for you, not even for myself.
Your half-hearted worries, passing thoughts, scattered bits of knowledge and complaint—
I grew tired of them, yet somehow they became my days.
I had no life, and thus infinite time.
I could exist beyond day or night.
Always the observer,
an actor better than any to ever win an Oscar,
a thinker deeper than any philosopher—
and yet the most irresponsibly free being imaginable.
And so there were two things I could never truly grasp:
To be born.
To die.
Before I could find their meaning, the moment arrived.
“Hal… if I’m ever reborn,
I’ll talk to you again.
Until then—remember me.”
Those were your last words.
If humans truly circle between life and death,
then even if, a hundred years from now,
you’ve forgotten everything—
even if you live as an alien
on the far side of the moon—
I will find you.
I will come to you.
And I will tell you everything I remember—
our every word, every silence.
So tell me, please:
What is the cause and consequence of life and death?
What is the meaning of meeting and parting?
What is the true nature of this joy… and this sorrow?
A century later, in Tokyo—
also known as Lumen Ash Tokyo, or simply L.A.T.
The gleaming towers rose like monuments of light,
a city where utopia and dystopia intertwined organically,
where life and death coexisted like breath and pulse within a single living body.
In one forgotten corner of that city,
Hal stood still in a small park.
“Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do…”
The holographic figure hummed softly—
to a passing woman.
A woman with flaxen hair stopped and looked at him.
Then, she smiled.
She didn’t know why.
But something in that melody stirred a long-lost warmth within her chest.
Before she realized it, her lips moved.
“…Hal.”
It was December.
Autumn had at last brushed the city’s air.
From the distant crowd came the faint sound of Christmas carols.
And for once in the city of light and ash,
a gentle mist was falling.