The Loan Garden

Keiko Arai sat cross-legged on the tatami floor of her cramped 1DK apartment in Kōenji, staring at the last cup of instant miso soup she could afford until the end of the month. Her phone battery was blinking red, but she let the screen glow a little longer. Another job rejection. Another unread invoice reminder. Another morning where she couldn't quite remember when she last cried — or laughed. She sighed, long and soundless. On her phone, a notification fluttered in.

> [AD]: Struggling with money? Let us help.
> Welcome to The Garden.
> Grow your future. Lease your past.

She almost deleted it out of habit. But then noticed the sender — not a sketchy gmail or unknown number, but a verified blue check beside the name: "Senshin Mutual Finance, Ltd." One of the new AI-run microloan companies that had quietly taken over half the rent contracts in the city. She clicked through. A video played: people walking calmly through an airy greenhouse, the soundtrack soft and warm like morning light.

> At "The Garden," we believe no one should have to suffer alone.
> Now you can convert your excess emotional states into immediate value — safely, discreetly, and effortlessly.
> With "non-invasive affective leasing," your moods are gently harvested while you sleep.
> No cuts. No side effects.
> You rest. We grow. You flourish."

Keiko blinked. "What the hell..." There was a clickable link:

> [Apply Now — 24-Hour Approval / No Credit Required]

She almost laughed. Of course there's no credit check, she thought. They're not taking your wallet. They're taking your feelings. But then she opened her banking app and saw the overdraft fees. The automatic rent payment that had bounced — again. The "friendly warning" from her landlord. Her thumb hovered, then tapped.

The consultation center was in a renovated high-rise in Shibuya, though you'd never know it from the inside. Bright lighting. Calming scent diffusers. Clean moss walls. The receptionist wore pale grey and smiled without teeth. She was guided to a small interview booth. The walls glowed faintly with fake sakura patterns. A woman entered. Or rather, a woman-shaped figure. Polished and exact. "Good morning, Arai-san. My name is Natsume. I'm your garden guide." Her voice was honey-polite, but slightly out of sync with her blinking. Keiko wasn't sure if she was a human enhanced by interface AI, or just fully synthetic. Natsume held a tablet. "We've reviewed your case. You qualify for Level 1 Affect Leasing under Article 7 of the National Harmony Finance Initiative. This entitles you to immediate partial debt clearance and a living expense float of 120,000 yen, in exchange for three categories of light affectivity." Keiko frowned. "Which categories?" Natsume smiled gently. "Tranquil joy. Unfocused desire. Sentimental memory." Keiko tried to process that. "You mean… I give you my happy thoughts?" "Not 'give', Arai-san. 'Lease.' We preserve and transmit your emotional tones — abstracted and anonymized — to our premium clients who cannot currently access those feelings. You're sharing, not losing." "And if I say no?" "Then your debt remains. Our offer is open for 24 hours." The contract was only eight pages, which disturbed her more than if it had been 200. No visible clauses about cancellation. No names of clients. No warnings. Only affirmations. At the bottom was a green signature box. It blinked. Her hands were cold. She signed. "Thank you, Arai-san. Your first extraction is scheduled for 01:00 tonight. Please rest well." As she left the building, a soft ping echoed in her ear from her phone. The app had already installed itself. A stylized flower bloomed on the screen.

> Welcome to the Garden. 
> We're so happy you're here.
> Estimated first dividend: 72,000 yen (JPY).
> Emotion class: JOY (Tier C).

Keiko walked back into the Tokyo dusk. And felt, for the first time in weeks, something close to hope. Or maybe just relief. Or maybe nothing at all.

The sound of cicadas had long since faded, replaced by the low mechanical hums that filtered through the cracks of Keiko's apartment walls—air conditioning units, vending machines, and the occasional midnight garbage truck. Tokyo never really slept. It merely quieted its chaos. Keiko lay on her futon, face half-buried in a pillow that still smelled faintly of fabric softener. The message had said to sleep well. Rest is optimal for affective retrieval. So she had drawn the curtains, turned off her phone, and drank a small cup of warm barley tea. No news. No alerts. Just stillness. As she drifted off, a strange sense of anticipation crept into her chest. Like the hush before a typhoon.

In the dream, she was seven again, barefoot in her grandparents' garden in Kanagawa. It was summer—real summer—where the sun hit your skin in golden sheets and every sound echoed: the buzz of beetles, the slosh of cold water in plastic pools, her grandmother's laughter. She ran between tomato plants taller than she was, skin sticky with sweat and joy, and bit into a fruit still warm from the vine. And for the briefest moment, she was pure light. Free from guilt. Free from rent. Free from "next." Then the dream stuttered. A thin shimmer passed through the scene, like interference on an old CRT screen. The color drained slightly. The laughter distorted, then looped — again and again, too perfectly. Her childhood self froze, like a cutout pasted into a living memory. A low tone sounded. Not in the air, but in her bones. Then — blankness.

She woke with a start. The sun hadn't risen yet. Her alarm hadn't rung. She didn't feel groggy. Or rested. She didn't feel anything. She stood, stretched, and walked to the kitchenette, automatically pouring water into the electric kettle. When it clicked off, she made her usual instant coffee — cheap, burnt, nostalgic — and brought it to her lips. She tasted... temperature. Bitterness. But no pleasure. Not even the familiar annoyance. She blinked. Then again. No butterflies in her stomach. No irritation. No boredom. Just... blank. Her phone buzzed softly.

> Good Morning, Keiko!
> Your First Emotional Dividend has been successfully processed.
> You earned JPY 72,000 by sharing:
> Tranquil Joy
> Sensory Wonder (Bonus Class)
> Tier Rating: B
> Payment deposited.
> Groceries arriving at 10:00am.

Attached was a stylized animation of a cherry blossom blooming, then gently floating down onto a still pond. She scrolled down. At the bottom was a line:

> [Hello!! You've unlocked a 3-day trial of MoodTrack™ Plus. Visualize your emotional returns in real-time.]

At 10:02 a delivery drone arrived. A box of groceries was lowered gently to her window with a cheery jingle. Inside: milk, eggs, rice, spinach, miso paste, coffee, three cans of chu-hi, and a handwritten card: "Thank you for growing with us."

By noon, Keiko had eaten a proper meal for the first time in weeks. The food was warm. The salt hit her tongue. The carbonation fizzed. But there was no satisfaction. It was like watching someone else eat. She took a walk down Nakano Broadway, passed rows of secondhand manga shops and blinking gachapon machines. A little girl ran ahead of her mother, clutching a rubber keychain like treasure. The mother laughed, brushing hair out of her eyes. Keiko watched them, expressionless. Her phone buzzed again.

> You may be experiencing mild perceptual drift.
> This is normal after first extraction.
> Enjoy the benefits of clarity and calm!
> You're doing great.

That night, she opened her fridge and smiled at how full it was. She didn't "feel" the smile. Her face simply performed it. Then she lay down and opened the MoodTrack™ app. A 3D graph swirled on her screen: spikes, dips, curves.

> Next extraction scheduled: 01:00
> Target Affect: Dream-like Nostalgia
> Estimated Value: JPY 49,000
> Depth Access Level: Green (Low)
> Emotional Balance: Stabilizing
> Cognitive Fog Risk: 2%
> You are flourishing.

She stared at the screen until it blurred. Then she placed the phone face down and lay back again, wondering what memory would vanish tonight.

Keiko sat on the park bench outside the neighborhood library, watching the trees sway in the breeze. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and exhaust. It was the kind of early afternoon when light slanted at just the right angle to make shadows look meaningful. She stared at a couple picnicking nearby. They were laughing—mouths wide, bodies leaning into each other, even their silences full. Keiko felt the shape of what she was supposed to feel: a flicker of envy, or perhaps yearning. But the emotion itself was gone, like trying to remember a dream seconds after waking. She took out her phone and opened MoodTrack™.

> Emotional Balance: Neutral
> Dividend potential today: ¥51,500
> Affect transfer in progress... 
> Please relax and hydrate.

She put the phone away. The woman from the couple looked over and smiled. Keiko returned it automatically. Her face was practiced, composed. But inside, she felt nothing—just a quiet hum, like the soundproofing foam of a recording studio.

Later that week, she ran into Mrs. Asano, her neighbor from two doors down. The old woman was carrying two bags of groceries and struggling slightly at the stairs. Keiko offered to help — her voice calm, her movements smooth. They ascended together in silence. "You're such a polite young lady," Mrs. Asano said. "Always so... serene. The world's too noisy these days. It's nice to see someone unaffected." Keiko bowed her head slightly. "Thank you." She didn't know if she felt anything at all about the compliment. It didn't reach her. That evening, she logged into her Garden dashboard. A new tab had appeared: Affect Upgrades. She tapped it.

> Available Options:
> => Controlled Sadness — ¥83,000 per cycle
> => Curated Longing — ¥91,000 (Premium Tier)
> => Introspective Despair — LIMITED TRIAL
> => Romantic Affection (Reserve Access only)
> Upgrading your emotional depth allows for greater dividends.
> Grow your garden deeper.

Keiko stared at the screen. She thought of the unpaid medical bill for her old cat, Nori, still sitting on her desk. She thought of the freelance job she'd been ghosted for. She thought of the half-eaten dinner she didn't want to finish. She clicked "Controlled Sadness." A message popped up:

> Thank you for your upgrade!!
> Additional layers will be scheduled for extraction during REM sleep.
> Temporary dulling of empathy and memory recall may occur.
> You are blossoming!! Wow!!

A few days later, she was working on a short assignment, writing product copy for a cosmetic cream, when she paused mid-sentence. The tagline was supposed to be: Feel radiant in your own skin. She stared at the word "feel." It seemed foreign now. She tried to remember the last time she felt radiant. Or anything. Outside her window, someone was playing a radio. The lyrics floated in, strangely flat: "I miss you like the sun misses the moon..." She couldn't remember what missing someone felt like. She submitted the assignment early. Her client replied, "This feels hollow. Can you make it more... emotional?" Keiko stared at the screen. She typed: "Of course. I'll revise immediately." Then she got up, opened the fridge, and drank half a can of beer without tasting it.

The next morning, her dashboard greeted her with animated plum blossoms and the phrase:

> You've unlocked Tier B+:
> Enhanced Stability
> Extra Dividend Boost
> One-Time Gift: Mood Mirror Device Shipping Soon.

She scrolled further. There was a new feature: Client Emotion Marketplace. Each of her past feelings now had labels, like antique goods at a curated boutique.

> => "Joy, Summer Childhood" -> Currently Licensed: Family in Oregon, USA
> => "Crush, University Library" -> Currently Licensed: Romance Sim Developer in Hokkaido, Japan
> => "Grief, Nori's Vet Visit" -> Queued for Transfer
> => "Anger, Unpaid Invoice (Client #41)" -> Unclaimed

Some feelings had ratings. Her "Rainy-day Melancholy, Age 17" had 4.8 stars. It was marked "Popular in Seoul." She didn't know whether to be flattered or afraid. Instead, she closed the tab and went for a walk.

At a café near Nakameguro, Keiko waited in line behind a man about her age. He turned, glanced at her, and held up a sleek plastic device clipped to his coat. "Are you Garden, too?" he asked. She nodded. "I thought so. There's this look people get. Like they're standing one step away from themselves." He smiled politely, without warmth. She noticed the same flatness in his eyes. "Do you miss it?" she asked. He shrugged. "Which part?" She hesitated. "Any of it." He looked thoughtful. "Sometimes. But I think I remember more than I actually feel. It's like... reading someone else's diary. Comforting, but distant." They didn't exchange names. Later, when she checked her app, it congratulated her on "successful social engagement" and offered a ¥5,000 bonus for maintaining affective neutrality during prolonged contact. She had become a model user.

The package arrived two days later, wrapped in light beige ecofoam and sealed with a gold sticker embossed with a sakura petal. It looked more like a luxury skincare delivery than medical equipment. Keiko opened the box slowly. Inside lay the Mood Mirror™, a sleek circular device with a soft matte finish, roughly the size of a compact wall clock. Its surface was silvery, but not reflective in the usual way — it shimmered faintly, like the surface of water holding light just beneath it. The instruction card said:

> Your mirror is synced to your past emotional imprints. 
> Place it on a flat surface, sit comfortably, and say the name of a stored emotion or memory. 
> The simulation will begin within moments. 
> Please do not attempt to touch the projection.
>  The Garden thanks you for your contribution. 

Keiko stared at it for a long time before powering it on.

That night, she sat cross-legged on the tatami mat in her small apartment, knees touching the cold floor. She set the Mood Mirror on the low table, dimmed the lights, and whispered: "Summer. Riverbank. Age seven." The mirror pulsed gently, then bloomed with color. In the center of the device, a small holographic scene emerged: a flickering image of a young Keiko in a red yukata, holding a scoop of shaved ice, running beside her father as fireworks exploded above the Sumida River. She watched the little girl laugh. The sound was distorted — watery, like something remembered underwater. Her chest ached. Not with the feeling itself, but with the phantom of its shape. The knowledge that something had once filled that cavity. She felt her eyes prick with tears, but the sensation stopped halfway. Her body remembered how to cry. But the part of her that knew why — that was gone. After the simulation ended, the mirror's voice chimed softly:

> Thank you for reliving with us.
> Emotional Access Summary: Read-Only.
> Would you like to schedule a deep nostalgia donation for enhanced returns?

Keiko powered it off.

She began using the Mood Mirror regularly. Each session reminded her of something that had once mattered — her mother brushing her hair on cold winter mornings; the awkward excitement of her first kiss behind the convenience store; the sting of rejection from her second job interview after college. It was like visiting a wax museum of herself. Intimate but cold. Accurate but uninhabitable. The more she watched, the more convinced she became that she was living in a body owned by someone else.

One afternoon, she went to the same café in Nakameguro. She'd brought the Mood Mirror with her in its cloth pouch, more out of habit than intention. To her surprise, the man from before was there again — same neutral expression, same faint circles under his eyes. He noticed her immediately and raised a hand in acknowledgment. They shared a small table near the window. "I never asked your name," he said. "Keiko." "I'm Shu." They shook hands, automatically. His grip was soft and measured, like someone touching an antique. "I brought my mirror," she said, tapping the pouch. "So did I." He gestured toward his bag. For a while they sat in silence, nursing drinks. Neither tasted them. Shu spoke first. "I simulated my father's funeral last night." Keiko blinked. "Was he...?" "Still alive. But the memory was from when I thought he'd die. Appendicitis scare when I was twelve. The grief was just theoretical." He took a slow sip. "Still vivid, though." Keiko nodded. "I did the riverbank again. The fireworks. It's getting harder to watch." "Because it feels like it should hurt?" "Because I think I'm starting to believe none of it was ever mine." Shu looked out the window. "You ever wonder what they do with our feelings?" "Sometimes." "I read that some are used in AI empathy training. Others get licensed by VR romance companies. Corporate HR departments run our fear profiles during onboarding simulations." Keiko looked down at her coffee, now cold. "At least someone's feeling them."

They parted ways with a strange, mirrored gesture — neither smile nor nod, but something in between. That night, Keiko stood by the window of her apartment. Rain traced slow, deliberate paths down the glass. She looked out at Tokyo, luminous and blurred, and imagined all the leased emotions drifting through the city like secondhand air. She turned the Mood Mirror on and whispered: "Loneliness. Age 29. New Year's Eve." The mirror shimmered. But instead of the projection beginning, a notification appeared:

> Memory currently in use by: Client #4372 — Entertainment Corporation (KYOTO).
> Would you like to queue for playback rights?

Keiko hesitated, then pressed NO. She sat in silence for a while, listening to the rain fall and the occasional distant siren. Then she climbed into bed, stared at the ceiling, and thought: Maybe someone somewhere is crying on my behalf right now. She didn't feel sad. Only... empty. And functional. Just as promised.

The call came on a Thursday morning, shortly after 9:00 a.m., while Keiko was folding laundry. It was her uncle, speaking gently but directly, his voice slightly quivering even through the filtered phone line. "Keiko-chan," he said. "Your mother passed last night." Keiko paused, towel in hand, mid-fold. "Heart failure. In her sleep." She stared at the yellow towel. The edges were frayed. A thread poked out like a whisker. "We're having the service Sunday," her uncle continued. "In Kanazawa, same place as your father's. You'll come?" "I... Yes," she said. "Of course." She ended the call. She stood in the middle of the room for a long time. Her breathing was steady. Her vision clear. Her chest — a void. No pressure. No tears. No feeling. She walked to the bathroom and stared at her reflection. She had always assumed grief would make her look wild, hollow, disheveled. But her skin was clear. Her eyes passive. She looked well-rested. She opened her phone. Navigated to The Garden's portal. Logged in. Her "emotional inventory" was displayed in pastel tiles:

> Joy — 86% leased
> Sadness — 100% leased
> Love — 78% leased
> Grief — 100% leased
> Anger — 92% leased

She tapped on Grief. A popup opened:

> Emotion Currently Active
> Leasee: Client #2209 (Int'l Bereavement Experience Archive)
> Expiry: 2029-03-11
> This emotion is currently bound by a mid-term licensing agreement.
> Requests for temporary reinstatement may be submitted but are not guaranteed.

She clicked Request Temporary Access. The screen loaded. A spinning flower. Then a response:

> Denied.
> Your grief has been marked "Tier-1 Exclusive."
> As per contract, Tier-1 emotions are non-reversible during lease term.
> For assistance, please contact Customer Emotive Support.

She stood motionless, hands clutching the edge of the sink.

At the funeral, Keiko wore a black dress with long sleeves and covered buttons, her hair tied back with a subdued navy ribbon. The ceremony was traditional — low chanting, offerings of incense, the sterile hush of a temple's waiting room. Relatives she hadn't seen in years bowed solemnly, greeted her softly, whispered condolences. Some embraced her. Others observed from a polite distance. Keiko moved through it like an actress in a documentary. She mimicked the others' facial expressions. Paused for the right length of time. Tilted her head during eulogies. Bowed at the correct angle. Folded her hands just so. But her eyes were dry. Her mouth — calm. During the cremation, she was asked to deliver a short farewell. She stood before the pale wooden coffin and said: "She loved hydrangeas. She used to plant them along the side of our house. When I was little, I thought they changed color because of magic, not soil. She never corrected me." She bowed. People wiped their eyes. A cousin gave her a look of admiration. But inside, Keiko was still a blank wall. Not cold, not warm. Just... chotto-matte. Untouched.

That night in the hotel, she tried again. She opened the Mood Mirror. "Grief. Mother's passing. Today." Nothing. A message blinked: This emotion is under exclusive lease and not available for playback. She tried Love. Then Nostalgia. Then Sorrow. All returned the same response: Temporarily inaccessible. Bound under collateral. She tossed the Mirror across the room. It hit the wall and landed face down on the carpet, pulsing faintly, still functional. She curled into bed, eyes open in the dark. In her mind, a flicker of a memory: her mother brushing her hair gently on a rainy day, humming a children's song. But the warmth never arrived. The scent, the ache — gone. Keiko whispered into the empty room, "I can't feel you." The room said nothing back. Only the low hum of central heating. And somewhere outside, the soft hiss of drizzle on pavement.

Three days after the funeral, Keiko returned to Tokyo. She unpacked her suitcase mechanically. Folded her dress back into the wardrobe. Set her funeral clutch bag next to the entryway mirror. Everything in its proper place. Then she sat down, opened her laptop, and typed in a search: "How to cancel The Garden emotional lease" A few results came up — some official, most buried in forums. She clicked a thread titled "Exit Routes (if any)?"

> User #shade_glass:
> They tell you it's a service, not a contract. 
> But you'll see. 
> Try removing your name from their registry. 
> You'll get the real terms.

She clicked through to The Garden's official site. Cancel Program => Exit Contract. A new screen loaded. Soft green background. Friendly icons. A message at the top: "We're sorry to see you go. Exiting may reduce access to stability features and emotional equilibrium. Proceed?" She clicked Yes. Another screen. "Calculating net emotional debt..." A progress bar. A delay. Then a figure:

> Remaining Debt: JPY 4,920,000
> Emotion Collateral: 73% (Critical Level)
> Immediate payment required to regain full access to emotional spectrum.
> Payment not received within 72 hours may result in further restrictions.

Keiko stared. Most of the Japanese, including Keiko, would not make that much in a year. Japan has been such a country for more than decades. She clicked into her emotional ledger. Every major feeling she used to possess had been monetized, transferred, depreciated, revalued, and traded. There were graphs — export schedules — patented "affect harvest maps" detailing when and how her feelings had been leased to unknown clients across the world. Joy had gone to a luxury virtual retreat in New Zealand. Grief, to a therapeutic simulator in Sweden. Nostalgia, oddly, was split across six tech firms in California. She returned to the exit page. There was a small line at the bottom in grey text:

> For hardship exemptions, click here.

She clicked.

> This account is marked Emotionally Restricted due to high-value collateralization.
> Please contact an Emotive Counselor for further assistance.

She did. A video call began immediately. A man in a light blue shirt appeared. Late 40s. Synthetic voice smoothing the edges of his tone. "Hello, Keiko. I see you're reviewing your exit options. May I help interpret your ledger?" "I want to cancel," she said plainly. "We understand. But you're currently in Tier-3 collateral status. That means core affective states — Love, Grief, Meaning — are held against your remaining balance." "I didn't realize I'd lose so much." "Most clients don't, initially. But your recent upgrades — Controlled Sadness, Deferred Longing, Optimized Detachment — were voluntarily selected." "I didn't know what they really meant." "Consent was logged." She paused. "Can I pay it back in time?" The man nodded. "You could. With effort. But you'd have to live completely unbuffered. All natural emotion. No subsidized regulation. It's not recommended." Silence. He added, "You do have one final option." Keiko's eyebrows lifted. "Tier-4 Permanent Disassociation. A full discharge. Your debt forgiven. All remaining affect reclassified as non-indexed. You'll be stable. Neutral. Debt-free." "What's the catch?" "You won't get them back. Not later. Not ever." She looked down. "Think about it," he said. "It's not a loss. It's freedom. A peaceful future. Isn't that what most of our clients want?" The call ended. Keiko stared at the blank screen. Then she shut her laptop. She went for a walk.

Outside, the city was in its usual hum: vending machines chirping, trains sighing overhead, distant laughter, barking from a pet café, tires on rain-slick streets. She turned down a side road and stopped near a playground. A little girl in a red cap was giggling madly as she spun on a tire swing, her mother pushing gently from behind. Keiko watched them from the shadows of a telephone pole. The sound of that laughter — it stirred something. A recognition. Not a feeling, but a memory of one. Like a scent with no name. She envied it. Not the swing. Not the mother. The feeling itself. The freedom to be overwhelmed. The unscripted joy. Keiko turned away. She walked home with steady steps. The wind picked up and carried with it a faint smell of wet leaves and exhaust. She didn't notice.

A week later, Keiko returned to The Garden's portal. She didn't flinch this time. She logged in, bypassed the warnings, and clicked on Tier-4 Permanent Disassociation. The screen pulsed gently.

> Please confirm your decision. 
> You are about to relinquish all remaining affective rights.
> This action is permanent and non-reversible.
> [ Proceed ] \[ Cancel ]

She clicked Proceed. There was no fanfare. No fireworks or digital confetti. Just a soft tone — like a wind chime being struck underwater — and a final message:

> Thank you for trusting The Garden.
> You are now fully optimized.
> We wish you a stable future.

She closed the laptop and placed it in a drawer.

In the mirror, Keiko saw her reflection. Her face looked the same. Pale skin. Sleep-deprived eyes. A touch of dryness at the lips. But something had softened. Or been removed. She blinked once. Twice. She touched her cheek and watched the motion with quiet curiosity. The strange thing was — she didn't feel loss. Not exactly. There was no grief to mourn what had been traded. No longing. Not even numbness. Just equilibrium.

On her walk through Shinjuku later that afternoon, the sky was overcast. She passed the station as the crowd flowed like a slow river. A man bumped into her. She apologized. He didn't reply. She didn't mind. Her shoes clicked neatly on the pavement. There was no tightness in her chest. No awkward fear. No lingering hope. She walked with calm purpose. She passed a ramen shop. A pop-up bookstore. A salaryman passed her, shoulders hunched. Two high school girls laughed over a phone screen. A delivery bike weaved past. At a crosswalk, a child tugged his mother's hand, jumping in place. As Keiko stood there, waiting for the light to change, someone brushed by her shoulder — a young woman, early twenties maybe, with dyed hair and wireless earbuds. She turned briefly, glanced at Keiko — and paused. Just for a second. A puzzled look flickered across the young woman's face, as though something had rippled in the air around her. And then: a smile. A very faint, inexplicable smile. It came and went. Keiko did not respond. She didn't feel compelled to. But the other woman walked on, a little lighter in her step. As if she'd caught a breeze of something — something rare. Something she couldn't quite name.