Ch.7070. Recognition.

# 70.

I’ve passed through many cities since waking from my long sleep, but I hadn’t seen a proper art gallery or museum until now.

In that sense, this museum was likely the only one left in the world—humanity’s final museum.

However, the museum was considerably smaller than the buildings we’d seen so far. While its exterior and decorations were more elaborate than anywhere else—that was all there was to it.

The already small space was mostly occupied by a gleaming hall that seemed designed purely for show, leaving even less room for actual exhibits.

Still, being humanity’s final museum, I thought they might have carefully selected only historically significant works rather than displaying a large quantity. So I followed the robot who offered to guide us through the museum without complaint.

“This is supposed to be an art gallery?”

…This was too much, even with lowered expectations.

A rectangular sealed room without a single window. The only objects inside were an empty frame and a long bench.

If I were to be extremely generous, I could understand if they had stacked all the world’s paintings like Tetris in this room—”They lacked space and time, so this is how they did it.”

But calling a place with nothing but an empty frame an art gallery was ridiculous.

“Would you please sit on that bench?”

“…Fine.”

Has the cold caused a malfunction in its components?

While seriously worrying about the robot’s condition, I sat down on the bench as instructed.

Soon the space began to darken. Come to think of it, I couldn’t see any lighting in the room—where was the light coming from?

As I looked around wondering about this, a soft light began to seep from behind the frame, or more precisely, from behind the frame.

“I get the feeling I should just focus on the frame without asking questions. I like how direct and simple this is. But… there’s no actual painting.”

Would the robot bring a painting to insert into the frame and explain it while I sat here?

As I muttered about not understanding what the robot was thinking, I rested my chin on my hand.

—And suddenly, a translucent blue window appeared before me.

“Huh?”

The window appeared so naturally that at first I thought it was another message notification.

But unlike message windows that only contained text, the window floating before my eyes now contained both text and images.

“Wow, what is this? Can you guys see this too?”

Numerous paintings arranged by era and year.

When I brought my finger close to a painting that even someone like me with little art knowledge could recognize, the painting appeared in the previously empty frame.

Seeing me blinking in surprise, the robot asked proudly, as if showing off the technology of its era:

“What do you think?”

“It’s… amazing.”

“Right? Would you like to come closer and touch it?”

“…You can touch it too?”

So it’s not just displaying the image I selected?

I approached the frame and carefully touched its surface.

I could actually feel the texture of paper and dried paint under my fingertips, just like touching a real painting.

“What incredible technology.”

“Now you understand why this space is called a museum, right?”

“Yes. But… even with such realistic artwork, it’s still not ‘real,’ is it?”

I sat back down on the bench and selected another work. The previous painting melted away like snow, and the one I’d selected appeared in its place.

It was fascinating to watch the frame resize itself to match the dimensions of each painting I selected.

Yet strangely, I felt no emotional response to the “artwork” in the frame. It was like looking at well-made artificial flowers.

“But… if you can print paintings this perfectly, couldn’t you also restore them?”

I tilted my head, looking at paintings with torn sections or faded colors.

Since these weren’t real paintings anyway, they could have been somewhat restored.

Perhaps it was out of respect for the artists who poured their souls into their work…

“Well, it seems they reproduced the paintings exactly as they appeared during their most famous period.”

“…So fame was more important than the quality of the painting.”

I suppose that makes sense. Even the most well-painted picture is just a scribble if it doesn’t catch people’s attention.

Fame is always determined by the perception of the humans living at that time.

“That’s part of it—but if you compare paintings from eras without proper techniques or tools to preserve their value over time with those from relatively modern times, it’s obvious which ones are better painted, isn’t it?”

“Is it? I personally like older things for their unique charm.”

“The future encompasses the past. If an old style becomes popular, people can just paint that way. The future has more than enough resources and tools for that. The past is most beautiful when it remains in the past.”

If we were to imitate past works with modern methods.

Or if we were to alter past works to make them look like they were created now.

The unique value that people cherished in those works would be devoured by time.

That’s why people categorized time. Though time flows continuously, paintings and the souls of their creators exist independently of time, allowing them to retain their value even in the distant future.

“It’s fascinating and impressive. Both this technology and the people’s desire to preserve value.”

But… I still couldn’t feel any emotion from these paintings.

Was it because they were created by people from an era unrelated to me? Or was it because I lived in too harsh a world to empathize with what these people painted?

I remembered the paintings in the slums. Those paintings on crumbling walls were all chaotic and primitive, but they conveyed so much—the vitality and hopes of the people who lived there.

“Is it because they’re… fake after all?”

Even if the paintings in the frames were fake, what I could see and touch matched the originals.

Considering that humans can only perceive objects through their senses like sight and touch, what was before me was essentially the same as the original.

In fact, if these were originals, I wouldn’t have been able to examine them this closely or touch them to feel the texture of the paint.

“What’s the difference, then?”

It seemed to be more than just a matter of taste—I browsed through works from various periods using the window, but not a single piece moved my heart.

Would I have felt emotion or sensed the artist’s feelings if the painting before me had been the real thing?

—What’s the difference between the original and a replica that even reproduces the tactile sensation?

As I muttered this, a blue window appeared beside my face, with a notification that a new message had arrived.

[Humans are naturally governed by their beliefs and social perceptions.]

Whether by coincidence or fate, the message that arrived seemed to answer the very question I’d been pondering.

We’re getting closer. Both the distance to Paradise and our time. When this distance and time completely align, what will happen to us?

Putting my questions aside, I looked at the painting. Personal beliefs. Social perception.

Yes. As long as I believe these are fake, I won’t feel anything from the works before me, no matter how well they’re painted.

Just as the origins of art were cave paintings depicting running animals, paintings always contain human desire. Through artwork, we glimpse the artist’s inner world and either empathize with or evaluate their desires.

But what’s before me isn’t a painting created by an artist. It’s merely an imitation of such a painting, reproduced with light and electricity.

Whether that’s true or not, the moment I perceived it that way, the artist vanished from this painting. Humans aren’t creative enough to empathize with art that lacks desire.

If I hadn’t known these were fake, I could have smiled and chatted about the paintings genuinely.

Just like how my days were so happy when I didn’t doubt the friends beyond the drone.

“I’m tired of paintings now. Let’s go to the next room.”

With mixed feelings, I left the room and walked down the corridor.

In the corridor, besides rooms for viewing paintings, there were places to view statues and architectural works.

Like with the paintings, I could select sculptures or buildings to appear in a rectangular space and even feel their texture.

But again, I only admired the technology; looking at the works themselves, I felt nothing beyond dry observations like “that’s intricate.”

If an art critic had been there, they might have hit me over the head for failing to appreciate the value of such fine artwork.

“Oh, this seems to be the music hall.”

“So it’s art, then writing, then music.”

I had been thinking about leaving the museum after playing around for a few hours.

I was tired and yawning every few minutes, ready to go outside.

But the robot insisted this was the last exhibit we had to see before leaving, and went through the door alone.

It told me to look around, but it seemed the robot was the one enjoying the tour.

“What an incorrigible robot.”

Left alone, I sighed and muttered those words before stepping through the door.

“Music is different from paintings or writing since it doesn’t exist in physical form, so this should be different.”

As I entered the room muttering this, what I saw was:

A large piano with a faceless man sitting at it, his hands poised over the keys.

—♬

I don’t know much about music or instruments, but with each movement of his fingers on the keys, it seemed like the notes of the song playing throughout the museum were connected.

“Mori, you came too. Were you curious?”

“Somewhat, but wait a moment.”

I strode forward and placed my hand on the man’s shoulder.

But my hand passed right through his body and fell. I took another step to try touching the piano, but the same thing happened.

“This is fake too.”

Both the instrument and the person were mere holograms. Once again feeling disappointed despite knowing the truth, I shook my head and noticed a seat below the stage.

I carefully descended the stairs and sat down. The space gradually darkened, and the stage lights brightened.

Just that simple change made the faceless performer seem like someone extraordinary.

“I know this song.”

“Really? You must enjoy classical music?”

“Not particularly… I just know the name.”

I suppose I had many opportunities to hear such music in the past.

Just like when selecting paintings, a blue window appeared, and when I chose a familiar song, the current music stopped and the lights flickered once.

The performer gently placed his hands on the keyboard, and as his fingers moved, a new song began to play. A soft, slow, and somewhat dark melody.

“It’s a somewhat sad piece, isn’t it?”

“…Yes, it is.”

For some reason, the performer’s face seemed to be clouded with sadness. This too must be due to my perception.

Sharing emotions not through words or expressions, but through sound.

Was it because each note flowing—no, being played—from the piano carried power?

Or was it because I’d learned to associate such sounds and melodies with sadness?

Watching the robot listening to the music with sadness, I truly couldn’t tell anymore.