The Why Question

Hyw

Sometimes, we forget something that brings us joy or does us good—something beautiful and nourishing. And then, at some point, we become aware of that absence, standing in a kind of limbo where we sense the positive feeling, yet can’t trace it back to its source. When the connection finally clicks, we’re surprised at our own forgetfulness—and we laugh, relieved.

That’s exactly what Anna felt when she woke up. It was a special day, the kind that makes your mouth water. She flung herself out of bed and dashed into the living room.

“There she is at last! Good morning, princess! I was just about to come in and yank off your covers!”

“You were going to yank off my covers!? Oh, I’ll show you!”

Anna tackled her father, giggling, and began playfully punching his round belly.

“Oof! I’m happy to see you too—but settle down now!”

He gently held her wrists to still her, waiting for her to calm.

“And what about me? Come here, my little one—give your old man a kiss.”

He turned the wheelchair toward her. Picking up on the cue, Anna ran and leapt onto her grandpa’s lap.

“Hi Grandpa! Is it going to rain today? What does your magic bone say?”

“Easy, Sweetpea! If you keep jumping on me like that, there won’t be any magic bones left to ask! But it doesn’t matter what the weather’s like—today is a beautiful day for you. Happy birthday, Sweetpea!”

With a burst of affection, Anna grabbed his snowy head and covered it in kisses. Grandpa, visibly overwhelmed, gently tugged her ears in return. Suddenly, as though remembering something vitally important, she broke away. Marching purposefully to the center of the room, she turned to her father with a serious and mischievous look:

“Something’s missing. Where is it?”

Smiling warmly, her father stood up, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small black cloth pouch.

“Here it is,” he said.

He tipped the pouch, and a silver, ridged sphere the size of a walnut floated out. It hovered in the air, gently spinning in front of Anna’s face.

“This one’s yours now. It’ll be with you for the rest of your life. Use it for anything that comes to mind. Happy birthday, Anna. From today on, you’re an adult too.”

Anna, previously trembling with excitement, froze. The nearness of the hovering object stirred something deep—an anxious awe. After a long moment inspecting the orb, her curiosity began to surface. She turned to her father.

“So now I just… ask it something? That’s all?”

“First, you need to give it a name—so it recognizes your voice when you call. Got one in mind?”

“Hmm… no. But what kind of name? Is it a boy or a girl?”

She pointed to the orb with a bent finger, careful not to touch it.

“That’s up to you. It doesn’t really matter. For example, mine is called Argenta, and Grandpa’s is called Hyw. Pick whatever you like.”

Anna looked around, thinking. Then she beamed.

“Beatrix! I’ll call her Beatrix, like my favorite doll. That way I’ll never forget!”

“Perfect.”

Her father stepped back, clearly pleased, and began giving her instructions.

“Now, follow me closely. We need to teach Beatrix that that’s her name—and that she belongs to you. Pick her up.”

Anna hesitated. “Can you show me how to do it first?”

“I can’t—it has to be only you. If someone else touches her during setup, the recognition might get scrambled. Just hold her and say her name, loud and clear.”

Gathering her courage, Anna cupped the orb in her hands and said, “Beatrix.” Immediately, a strange weight settled on her chest, an oppressive discomfort. The orb grew heavier and cold in her palms.

“She got cold… and heavier.”

“That’s normal, don’t worry. It means she’s calibrated. How do you feel?”

“Fine, I guess… but weird. Like I jumped into a lake with all my clothes on and they’re still clinging to me—soaked and heavy.”

“That’s perfectly fine. Alright! Now that we’ve completed initialization, let’s try your first test. You’ve seen how we do it. Try it yourself—it’s easy, you’ll see.”

“Okay.”

Anna sat cross-legged on the warm floor. For a few minutes she sat still, thoughtful. She’d imagined this moment for so long—now it had arrived. The chance to ask anything, to know everything. But what to ask first? Nothing came to mind.

She thought of her butterfly notebook, where she had long kept a careful log of every question that popped into her head, numbered and dated, much to her father’s delight. But in her rush that morning, she’d left it on her nightstand.

She tried to concentrate, but her thoughts circled back to her notebook. And then: butterflies. Of course!

She jumped up and fixed her gaze on the orb.

“How do butterflies fly?”

The silver orb shot upward, stopping at the center of the room. Suddenly the air filled with vibrant, fluttering butterflies—holograms so lifelike that when one landed on the sofa and Anna reached out, it darted away.

She stood, dazzled by the colorful flurry. Then she turned to her father.

“Now what?”

“If you want to know more, just ask something else. Otherwise, say: ‘Beatrix STOP.’”

“Let’s see… I want to see a red ant colony!”

The butterflies vanished. In their place stood an enormous, cross-sectioned anthill, towering over Anna, revealing the entire inner structure. She was awestruck. How could such tiny creatures build something so vast? But then again, humans lived in homes much larger than themselves too.

Her father gently brought her back to the task.

“Try not to change subjects. Ask questions just about the anthill.”

Anna followed his advice.

“What’s happening in there?” she said, pointing at a small chamber.

A voice replied: “This is where ants store their food.”

A label appeared: FUNCTION: food reserve. Other tags lit up: FUNCTION: egg-laying; FUNCTION: larva growth; FUNCTION: building materials depot.

She had a spark of insight.

“What do the ants in this colony do?”

The voice answered in a calm, measured tone: “Each member of the colony performs one main role: soldier, forager, builder, cleaner, nurse.”

“Then they’re just like us!” Anna exclaimed. “Dad, did you see? They live in homes bigger than themselves, built by themselves, and everyone has a job!”

“That’s right! Great observation, Anna.”

He sat back, admiring her natural curiosity—something dulled in himself after years of using the device.

“Let’s see… show me a single ant. Bigger, that’s it. Look, arms and legs—sort of like ours. A head, two eyes like us… but do ants have a heart?”

The projections shifted to a cross-section of an ant, with labeled organs.

“There it is! Dad, look—they do have a heart! It says: ‘The heart is tubular—a single vessel.’ Simpler than ours, but still a pump! We’re just like ants! Wait… where are the lungs?”

“Ants don’t have lungs,” the voice intoned. “They breathe through small holes in their exoskeleton.”

Anna thought for a moment. Then she asked:

“If ants and humans both have hearts, why don’t we both have lungs?”

The projection vanished. Nothing replaced it. A dull sound echoed—Beatrix had fallen to the floor. Anna jumped back, startled. Her father calmly picked it up and handed it to her.

“Sorry, that was my mistake—I forgot to mention the most important rule: never use the word why. Got it? It’s a habit you’ll lose quickly. You’re an adult now—adults don’t ask why. Still, it’s everyone’s right—and duty—to seek understanding and go into detail when needed. With the tools we have today, staying ignorant would be a shame, don’t you think?”

“Yes, Dad, you’re right.”

Anna thought of all her questions. Even without using why, there were plenty left to ask.

“I get it! No why, but everything else is fair game. That’s easy.”

“Exactly. Well done, Anna—I’m proud of you.”

She rolled the orb in her hands. The memory of its initial chill lingered, but curiosity outweighed it.

“Dad?”

“Yes, Sweetpea?”

“My orb is Beatrix. Yours is Argenta. Grandpa’s is Hyw. But what was its name before we named it?”

“You could just call it ‘device’ or ‘tool,’ I suppose. People would understand.”

“No, I mean like a real name. Its own name.”

“It doesn’t have one. There’s no point.”

“And why—”

She clapped both hands over her mouth.

“I won’t do it again, I promise!”

Her father smiled gently.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I know you’ll do great—you always do when you put your mind to it. Right?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Good. If you’re really curious about how Beatrix works, you could research its inventor. That might be a good place to start. What do you think?”

But Anna wasn’t in the mood for history. Not on her thirteenth birthday.

“Grandpa? Do you have any suggestions?” she asked, turning toward him hopefully.

He had withdrawn earlier to let the holograms fill the space, watching in silence. Now he sat rigid in his wheelchair, unmoving.

“No, I don’t. I’m sorry.”

“Come on… you use Hyw way more than Dad uses Argenta. He’s all about numbers, but you—your stories are the best…”

He raised his eyes to meet hers. For a moment, they held. Then tears welled up and, with a shudder, he began to sob.

Startled, Anna ran to him and took his hand in both of hers.

“Grandpa? Are you hurting? Is it your back again?”

“No! What back pain? I’m fine.”

“But Grandpa, you’re crying—something must hurt…”

“No, I swear, I’m alright.”

“But—”

“Leave Grandpa alone,” her father said sternly.

Anna looked back and forth: her father serious, her grandfather still trembling. Confused, she stepped away. She hadn’t even picked up Beatrix again before Grandpa had left the room.

“Dad… what’s wrong with Grandpa?”

“Nothing. He sometimes feels pains that aren’t real. He’s old. His memory plays tricks. But don’t worry—I’ve never had anything like that. And I promise, neither will you.”

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