It was a weekend afternoon.

  Rowan had decided to meet a friend

  just to clear his head.

  The café wasn’t crowded.

  More precisely,

  there were people—

  but no staff.

  Behind the counter,

  an unmanned robotic arm moved slowly,

  grasping cups,

  measuring beans,

  adjusting the water temperature.

  Its movements were smooth.

  No unnecessary gestures.

  It was so precise

  that your eyes didn’t linger on it.

  Rowan sat by the window.

  Mailo arrived a little late.

  “Hey. Still the same here,”

  Mailo said.

  “Quiet, even on a weekend.”

  Rowan glanced toward the robotic arm.

  “No people.”

  Mailo nodded and sat down.

  He placed a thin pad

  on the table.

  Not a laptop.

  Not paper.

  A single transparent panel.

  Mailo brushed the surface

  and pulled up his notes.

  “Don’t you think old laptops had more vibe?”

  he asked, tapping the pad lightly.

  Rowan smirked.

  “Laptops?

  They’re practically relics now.

  Hard to even find one.”

  Most people these days

  had never typed on a physical keyboard.

  Input was done through pads

  or voice recognition.

  Physical keys

  survived only

  as educational tools.

  “Right?” Mailo replied.

  “Maybe those analog concept shops still carry them.”

  He folded the pad once,

  then unfolded it again.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  “It’s convenient though.

  Lightweight.

  Auto-sync.

  File management handled for you.”

  He paused.

  “But… doesn’t it feel strange?”

  “What does?”

  “The moment I write something,

  it feels like it’s already

  uploaded somewhere.”

  Rowan shrugged.

  “Security’s stronger now.”

  “Yeah.”

  Mailo nodded.

  “But sometimes

  I wish there were things

  that didn’t go anywhere at all.”

  Rowan understood.

  A state where nothing needs closing,

  yet nothing is truly closed.

  Where nothing needs saving,

  yet everything is already shared.

  “Laptops were different,”

  Mailo said.

  “When you closed them,

  they were actually closed.”

  “By that logic, paper’s better,”

  Rowan added absently.

  Mailo laughed.

  “True.

  That’s completely mine.”

  A brief silence.

  The pad glowed softly.

  The sentences were perfectly aligned.

  So smooth

  they looked untouched.

  Rowan stared at the surface for a moment,

  then looked away.

  The robotic arm approached

  with their coffee.

  As it set the cups down,

  a soft notification tone sounded.

  “Your order is ready.

  Adjusted according to your personal feedback profile.”

  Rowan accepted his cup.

  “So. Writing going okay lately?”

  Mailo hesitated

  before activating the pad again.

  “Freelance journalism’s not easy…”

  He flipped through the screen.

  “The topic’s fixed.

  The angle’s guided.

  Cross a certain line

  and it flags ‘reader disengagement risk.’”

  Rowan gave a quiet laugh.

  “Then what exactly are you doing?”

  Mailo shrugged.

  “Polishing sentences

  inside the frame.”

  Rowan listened without speaking.

  “Sometimes I think about this,”

  Mailo said.

  “Then what more

  can I even do here?”

  Rowan set his cup down.

  “Write columns?”

  “No.”

  Mailo shook his head.

  “The system’s already doing that.

  I just…

  adjust the wording

  inside a structure

  that’s already decided.”

  Silence settled again.

  Only the faint mechanical sound

  of the robotic arm

  filled the space.

  Rowan listened to it and said,

  “I’ve been thinking the same lately.”

  “You too?”

  “Yeah.”

  He looked out the window.

  “It feels like

  we’re losing the time to think,

  the chance to choose.”

  Mailo glanced at him.

  “Did you suddenly become a philosopher?”

  “Did I?”

  Rowan laughed awkwardly.

  “It’s just…

  A lot of times,

  before I even feel like I’ve chosen something,

  it’s already over.”

  Mailo thought for a moment.

  “Maybe that’s just technological progress.

  No need for inconvenience anymore.

  People wanted this.”

  Rowan nodded.

  It wasn’t wrong.

  “Yeah. It’s comfortable.”

  He paused.

  “But sometimes

  I don’t even remember

  what I chose.”

  Mailo laughed.

  “People barely remember

  what they had for lunch yesterday.”

  It was a joke.

  Rowan knew that.

  But today,

  the laughter didn’t quite land.

  Mailo folded the pad.

  “Still, I think we’re on the safer side.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re at least

  complaining.”

  He looked at Rowan and added,

  “Maybe the truly dangerous thing

  is when nothing

  comes to mind at all.”

  The words

  caught lightly

  inside Rowan’s chest.

  As they left the café,

  Rowan looked once more

  at the robotic arm.

  Its movements were still precise.

  Nothing seemed wrong.

  And yet—

  that perfection

  felt slightly suffocating.

  Too smooth.

  Inside,

  he recalled a thought

  from a few days ago.

  I thought I was choosing—

  but it felt like

  I arrived

  after the choice had already been made.

  That night,

  the thought

  was preparing

  to become

  a little clearer.

  isn’t the robotic arm

  or the pad.

  that your eyes don’t linger on it,

  that may not be convenience—

  of emptying memory.

  that method

  operates more openly

  inside the house.