Birth Directive

When Mr. K received the document, he was scraping the last bit of oatmeal from the bottom of his bowl with a spoon. The postman hadn't even knocked; the thick, beige envelope, bearing some sort of official seal, seemed to have materialized out of thin air on the doormat, exuding a characteristic archive room scent – a mixture of stale paper and dried ink. He couldn't even recall if he had heard footsteps.

Inside the envelope wasn't the utility bill he expected, but a copy of a judgment, phrased meticulously yet vaguely. The core content stated that his marriage with Mrs. M was legally dissolved, effective immediately. The reason stated was exceptionally concise, almost brutal: "Based on Mrs. M's explicit and persistent refusal to fulfill her 'next-stage procreation duty' during the marriage, constituting a substantial impediment to the continuity of the family unit, decreed by Regulation 7B of the 'Family Continuity Affairs Management Office,' the marital relationship is terminated."

What made Mr. K even more dizzy was the attachment to the judgment – a bank transfer receipt. A not insignificant sum, precise to two decimal places, had already been deposited into his personal account. The memo field on the receipt read: "Duty Termination Compensation." Compensation for whom? For what? Was it compensation for losing a wife who refused to procreate, or compensation for society losing a potential new member? The document offered no explanation.

Mr. K sat at the dining table, the oatmeal now cold, congealed into a greyish-white film. He tried to recall the specific circumstances of M refusing the "next-stage procreation duty." They already had one child, a healthy, lively boy, now five years old. It was true that over the past year, whenever Mr. K, or their parents, or even neighbors, half-jokingly, half-seriously mentioned "having another one," M would always fall silent, or gaze into the distance with a tired yet resolute look in her eyes, eventually shaking her head gently. "I can't," she had whispered once, her voice as faint as a sigh, "I just can't." At the time, Mr. K had merely thought she was perhaps tired, or it was just a temporary mood, never imagining this "cannot" would be recorded, become the basis for an official ruling, and accompanied by a "compensation" that felt like both a fine and a reward.

This money felt like a searing brand, making Mr. K restless. He tried calling M, but the line was busy, again and again. He impulsively wanted to go to M's parents' house to find her, but an inexplicable fear gripped him. He wasn't afraid of M's family, but afraid that once he stepped outside his door, he would be drawn into an even larger, more incomprehensible process. That "Family Continuity Affairs Management Office" – he had never heard of this agency, yet its power seemed boundless, able to easily intervene in the most private family life and pass judgment in a cold, formulaic manner.

The next day, Mr. K decided to go to the "Family Continuity Affairs Management Office" to demand clarification. Following the blurry address at the foot of the judgment, he navigated the labyrinthine streets of the city. Eventually, he found a nondescript grey building, unmarked except for a small, almost illegible metal plaque nailed beside the door frame, etched with "7B."

He was received by an expressionless middle-aged man sitting behind a high counter, surrounded by mountains of files. Mr. K stated his purpose and handed over the copy of the judgment. The man took the document and flipped through it with extreme slowness, as if each word weighed a ton.

"Yes, Mr. K," the man finally spoke, his voice as monotonous as a machine, "The procedure is correct. Mrs. M refused to fulfill her duty, the marital relationship is legally terminated. The compensation has been issued."

"But... what is the 'next-stage procreation duty'? Who defines it? Why must she divorce for refusing? This money..." Mr. K's words tumbled out faster and faster, he felt his own logic disintegrating.

"Duty is duty, Mr. K," the man interrupted, pointing to a huge, extremely complex organizational chart hanging on the wall behind him, countless arrows and boxes intertwined, ultimately converging towards a vague peak. "The regulation naturally comes from... the regulation itself. As for the consequences of refusal, Regulation 7B clearly states them. The compensation is a balancing calculation for the 'potential loss to the family unit,' and also a form of solace for your personal... ah... change in status."

"Change in status? Potential loss?" Mr. K felt a wave of dizziness. "But that was my wife, our home..."

"According to the records, it is now just your home, Mr. K," the man corrected, his tone held no sympathy or malice, only a thorough, dehumanizing objectivity. "Mrs. M no longer bears any 'family continuity responsibility' associated with this address."

Mr. K wanted to argue, to roar, but found he couldn't make a sound. The man's eyes were empty, like two shut windows, refusing any emotional exchange. An invisible pressure permeated the surroundings, as if the very air demanded he accept this fait accompli, accept this absurd yet incredibly solid logic. He felt like an insect trapped inside a precision instrument, struggling futilely, unable to touch the outer shell, let alone understand its workings.

He left the grey building, the compensation money weighing heavily in his bank account and on his heart. Walking down the street, watching the hurried passersby, a terrible thought suddenly struck him: Were they too carrying some unseen "birth directive"? Could their marriages, their families, also be dissolved at any moment due to a member's "refusal," followed by a nonsensical "compensation"?

Returning to the empty home, his son was quietly playing with blocks in the living room. Seeing Mr. K, the child looked up and asked, "Daddy, when is Mommy coming back?"

Mr. K opened his mouth but found himself unable to answer. He didn't know where M was, or if she would ever come back. He wasn't even sure what the word "come back" meant anymore in this world governed by the "Family Continuity Affairs Management Office" and "Regulation 7B." He walked to the window, looking out at the grey, overcast sky, feeling that he, like the compensation money, had been abandoned in a vast, incomprehensible labyrinth with no recourse. The money, rather than compensation, felt like a label, cold proof that he had once been part of a family unit shattered by a "refusal to procreate." And the reason for that refusal, the abyss behind that "cannot," remained forever hidden in Mrs. M's silent, distant gaze, becoming another unsolvable riddle in this absurd world.