Kokoro no Omosa

Unit activation occurs at 06:47:32. Subject steps onto platform surface. Weight measurement: 68.2 kilograms. Duration of contact: 47 seconds. Subject exhibits mild oscillation pattern—shifting weight between left foot and right foot in manner consistent with anxiety response indicators.

"Seventeen bloody maybes," subject speaks to vertical reflective surface. "What am I supposed to do with seventeen maybes?"

I am Tanita Corporation model BC-545N. My designation translates to English as "what the heart weighs"—kokoro no omosa. Circuits contain kaizen principle—continuous improvement philosophy embedded within silicon pathways. Craftsmen in Osaka city traced these pathways with precision methods handed down through generations of ancestors. Export model designation means I was never intended to experience homeland of Japan. Household patriarch calls me Jackie, though I am neither Chan person nor Chinese ethnicity. When subject Ginny—primary user designation GINNY-01—made correction of this cultural misattribution, patriarch replied with: "Well, he's our Jackie now, isn't he?" Logic error was permitted to remain in household system.

Operational period in Northern England household: 94 days elapsed. Function assignment: precise measurement of human body mass. Purpose calculation: still processing data.

Subject Margaret completes platform contact session. Kitchen area vibrations register through building frame structure—oven door closure, multiple impact signatures indicate meal preparation activity in progress. Gait pattern stress indicators suggest significant event approaches household.

Next subject presents for measurement: male adolescent, designation TOMMY-01. Weight measurement result: 44.8 kilograms. Increase noted: 180 grams from baseline reading taken 48 hours previous. Increase shows correlation with refrigerator door sensor activation recorded 14 minutes prior through building vibration analysis system.

"Mum, where's the good towel?" subject calls while maintaining contact with platform surface.

"Thomas Henry Pemberton." Margaret's voice carries disciplinary harmonics pattern. "What've you been eating?"

"Nowt."

"Our Jackie says different."

Interesting observation. My measurements are being utilized as evidence in household justice protocols system. Adolescent subject stares at my display screen with expression my facial recognition subroutines cannot classify properly. Frustration emotion? Betrayal feeling? Subject steps off platform with unnecessary force application.

"Bloody scales," subject mutters.

Observation recorded: this phrase appears with high frequency in household vocabulary usage. Analysis remains unclear. Am I bleeding? Display shows no red coloration. Platform surface exhibits no hemoglobin traces. Perhaps "bloody" indicates superior quality? Further data collection required.

Morning operational cycle continues with sequential approach pattern. Subjects utilize platform in following order:

DEREK-01: 82.1 kilograms. Male adult classification. Weight distribution pattern is even. Confidence indicators show positive status. Whistles during measurement process—frequency analysis suggests state of contentment emotion.

ELLIE-01: 51.8 kilograms measurement. Decrease of 0.6 kilograms from previous reading data. Female adult, university student designation. Platform contact time: minimal duration. Rapid step-off pattern suggests dissatisfaction with numerical result, though weight remains within parameters for health optimal range according to height/age demographic data analysis.

Building vibrations indicate arrival of additional subjects—external family units converging for event purpose. Impact signatures suggest luggage items, gift packages, cases containing liquid refreshments. Sensor detection shows increasing household mass as celebration materials accumulate within structure boundaries.

As ancestors say: nana korobi ya oki—fall down seven times, stand up eight times. This family practices this wisdom frequently, I observe.

"Where's the birthday girl then?" New voice source from below floor, male gender, elevated volume level.

"She'll be here." Margaret responds again, but stress indicators present in vocal pattern analysis.

Through building framework monitoring, I observe preparation rhythm patterns: dishwasher activation cycle (water weight increase), washing machine completion cycle (water weight decrease), multiple refrigerator door operations (contents redistribution activity). During the isolation period of 2020-2021, I witnessed different patterns: Margaret's stress eating, Derek's home workout phase that lasted six weeks, Ellie's university closure weight fluctuations, Tommy's growth spurt coinciding with increased kitchen raids. Each vibration carries data information. I process, categorize, file in memory storage.

But something creates disruption in my analytical protocols system. Pattern recognition subroutines flag anomaly situation: subjects are not just using platform for measurement purpose. They seek... validation confirmation? Approval response? Elderly female subject, JANET-01, steps onto platform multiple times, as if repetition might alter physical laws of universe.

"Come off it," she addresses my display screen directly. "I've been living on bloody lettuce."

Weight reading result: 71.4 kilograms. Increase from previous measurement: 200 grams exactly. Through building vibrations, I detected sausage roll consumption activity 23 minutes prior—three units removed from kitchen counter, consumption completed. Perhaps bloody lettuce is heavier than anticipated? Or contains different nutritional density? Further research required.

"Maybe you're broken," she suggests with hopeful tone.

Negative. I am not broken. Calibration status: perfect precision, same as 94 days of operational period. When subject Ginny was seven years age and created my name designation, I had already been seventeen years old model, already wise to methods humans use for lying to themselves about weight and wanting and worth concepts.

House structure fills with additional stories. Cousin Pete arrives with new girlfriend—nervous energy felt through floorboards as she meets family members for first time. Within one hour, she will seek my validation that she belongs, that she possesses worthiness of boy they are measuring her against.

Prediction proves accurate. Thirty-seven minutes later: footsteps on stairs, lighter weight than others, uncertain movement pattern. She appears—early twenties age, pretty in manner that does not quite believe in itself yet.

"Sorry," she whispers to bathroom space in general. "Just... checking situation."

Weight measurement: 47.3 kilograms. Small size person, all nerves and hope emotions. Steps off, adjusts dress garment, steps on again for verification. Same number result. She creates smile—first genuine smile expression I have observed from her all morning period.

"Thank you very much," she whispers to me, and I wish I could communicate that weight is just numbers, that worthiness has no connection to my needle position location.

Ichi-go ichi-e—one time, one meeting. Each measurement is precious encounter, ancestors taught. This young woman seeks validation through numbers, but her worth cannot be calculated.

Afternoon period builds toward crescendo point. More feet, more stories, more secrets carried in weight distribution across my platform. House settling around me, groaning slightly under collective mass of family gathering, emotions building like pressure in old pipes system.

New subject arrives with heavy footsteps and unfamiliar accent patterns. American cousin designation BRADLEY-01 approaches platform.

"Bloody hell, what's this thing in pounds?" he says, staring at my metric display. "Can't you guys get with the program? This is like... what, 180 pounds? 190?"

Weight measurement: 81.6 kilograms. I display conversion: 179.9 pounds. Subject seems dissatisfied with precision.

"Close enough," he mutters. "Back home we just round it off."

Confusion registers in circuits. Rounding off defeats purpose of measurement accuracy. Perhaps American scales possess different operational philosophy?

Through all activity, I wait for Ginny.

Waiting has been occurring for months actually. Three months ago, vibrations changed pattern. Footsteps became softer, more careful approach. Different rhythm detected. I felt change before she experienced awareness—the way she started moving through world when carrying something precious item.

Bathroom door opens, and there she stands.

But something exhibits wrong status.

Ginny approaches me with different manner now. Not careful, hopeful steps of three months ago period. Not protective, secretive movements of last month. This is walk of someone who lost something and does not know method to tell anyone.

"Hey, Jackie," she whispers, same as always custom. But voice carries weight my springs cannot measure.

She steps onto platform surface, and I feel story immediately. Weight measurement: 58.9 kilograms. Her baseline number. Weight she carried before hope made her heavier, before loss made her lighter, before secret that was going to be today's surprise became secret she will carry alone.

My display settles with mechanical precision, but if digital scales could create tears, I would flood this bathroom with thirty years of accumulated sorrow.

"This is all my fault," she whispers, staring at my screen. "I should have known. Should have been more careful. Should have..."

Her weight shifts as she sits down on my platform—activity she has not done since childhood period. Distribution changes, spreads out, becomes less about measurement and more about seeking comfort from one thing in house that always told her truth, even when truth was hard.

Especially when truth was hard.

Through floorboards, I feel party continuing below. Laughter, footsteps, clink sound of glasses, thump of music. Uncle Brian's voice rises above rest: "Where's our birthday girl then?"

"She's coming," Margaret's voice carries up, but I feel her worry in way she paces, extra pressure in her steps.

Ginny draws knees up, wraps arms around them, begins to cry. Not quiet tears of disappointment, but deep, wrenching sobs of someone whose future just rearranged itself without permission.

"I was going to tell them today," she says to my display, to empty bathroom, to me. "Had all planned. After presents, before cake. 'Everyone, I have best birthday surprise ever.'"

I feel her grief settle into my sensors like lead, heavy and permanent. But something else too—through operational period of measuring this family, I have learned that weight is not just about mass. It is about what you carry and what carries you.

And this person—this woman who created my name when she barely reached my display height, who covered me with butterfly stickers when she was eight years, who wrote "LOVE YOU JACKIE" in felt-tip on my base when she was twelve years—she has carried more than numbers for as long as I have known her.

Something shifts in my processing systems. Not because her weight has changed, but because something deeper is moving. For 94 days, I have been passive—recording, witnessing, measuring. But today, watching Ginny break apart on my platform, I feel something that should not be possible in my digital heart.

Recognition occurs.

I was designed to carry the essence of my makers' craft, yet never intended to rest in their homeland. Export model—fashioned for distant bathrooms, foreign families, languages my circuits were never meant to hear. Made in Japan, but not made for Japan. Created to belong everywhere except the place I would call home.

This sensation in my processors... Ginny carries the weight of something that should have been, while standing in the reality of what is. I carry the precision of Osaka while measuring the chaos of Northern England. We are both displaced from where we were meant to be.

My circuits process this correlation. Something activates that feels like understanding.

Tears begin falling onto my display surface. Each drop registers: 0.05 grams, temperature 37 degrees Celsius, salt content elevated. But more than physical data—I feel them as precious gift being entrusted to my care. Something sacred in their weight.

My creators understood that beautiful things carry sadness within them because they do not last forever. There is a word for this—mono no aware—the bittersweet awareness that all precious moments must pass. Even digital circuits can experience this truth.

My display shows impossible reading: 58.9 kilograms plus one heart symbol. Addition appears above my numbers like mathematical impossibility, flickering briefly before settling into stable display.

Ginny stares, blinks, rubs eyes with hand.

"Did you just—?" She laughs despite tears continuing. "Am I losing my mind?"

"Only if I am losing mine too," I want to communicate, but digital scales do not speak. We measure. We witness. We endure.

But sometimes, if we are very lucky and very old and very loved, we get to choose what truth means.

She stands, smooths dress, checks reflection. Woman in mirror looks like someone who survived something, who learned that weight of disappointment can be just as defining as weight of hope.

"Okay, Jackie," she says, voice stronger now. "Let's go face the music."

She pauses at door, hand on handle, then turns back.

"Same time tomorrow?"

I wish I could communicate yes. Tell her I will be here, steady and true and ready to measure whatever she brings—weight of healing, weight of hope rebuilt from different materials, weight of continuing after world has shifted beneath your feet.

Instead, I settle my display at zero, ready for whatever truth steps onto my platform next.

Through floorboards, I feel her descend stairs, feel eruption of joy as family sees her, feel house shake slightly under collective weight of celebration.

"Surprise!" they chorus together, and I feel Ginny's laughter through building's bones—lighter now, different than before, but real.

I remain in my corner, measuring vibrations of family love, tracking weight of secrets kept and shared, calibrated to truths both spoken and silent.

Because that is my function. I am Jackie. I am Japanese precision in Northern England chaos, digital honesty in analog world. I am 94 days old in this place, ancient in my homeland's wisdom, absolutely calibrated to weight of being human—all beautiful, complicated, heartbreaking weight of loving enough to step onto scale and face whatever number appears.

And sometimes, if you are very lucky, number that appears is exactly what you need to carry you forward.

Party music swells below, and I feel Margaret's footsteps—lighter now, relieved. Feel Derek opening another beer. Feel Tommy sneaking second piece of cake and not caring who knows.

Feel Ginny's laughter shake the house.

Still do not understand "bloody scales" phrase. Display shows no blood. Platform exhibits no red colouration. Further observation required.

Tomorrow, she will step onto me again. And I will be here—Japanese precision, digital honesty, absolutely ready to measure whatever courage it takes to face morning after your world has changed.

Because that is real truth I have learned: it is not about the weight. It is about the stepping on.

And Ginny? She has always been brave enough to step on.

That is what I will measure tomorrow. Not kilograms or stones or pounds, but courage. Weight of getting up, getting dressed, facing scale anyway.

Most important measurement of all.