The government made the announcement in the February of that year. A virus had been spreading through the ornamental cherry trees of Japan for almost a decade, and now every tree in the country was infected. It was thought to have been a mutation of a virus that had come in from Russia, brought in on fruit that had somehow managed to escape the rigorous inspection procedures. Every tree that was infected went through the same stages. First, the tree would develop great galls on its trunk and branched, making it look as if great, bark-covered balls were growing from it. Then the wood would become rotten from the inside. Finally, the infection would spread to the leaves and flowers. An infected tree would have one last spring of blotchy glory, then it would die as the leaves fell from the branches, leaving the tree unable to gather energy from the sun.

Of course, the authorities had tried to contain the infection and find a cure. But, as the ornamental cherry trees were all of the same species, the infection spread quickly through them. The government had tried to burn the infected trees, but protests had taken place. People had chained themselves to the trees, forcing the authorities to use cutting gear on their bonds. While the protesters were well-meaning, they had carried the infection from tree to tree faster than nature would otherwise have done. And, as the government enacted prophylactic measures, the protestors had tried to stop the healthy trees being destroyed. Instead, they only succeeded in infecting the trees they were trying to save.

When the public heard that this spring would be the last one with cherry blossom, riots broke out. The cherry was the national tree of Japan; the flower its national symbol. If the last cherry tree went, what could that mean for the country? The government urged calm and issued repeated statements that they were working on a solution. Then, just before the vernal equinox, they showed the public what they had been doing.

The first of the robotic cherry trees was unveiled in Ueno Park, at the centre of a grove of burnt-out stumps. It stood above them, its slender metal branches glinting in the cold, March sunlight. At a signal from the Prime Minister, small crystal petals began to emerge from holes on the tree. They glowed with a pink light that grew brighter as the artificial flowers emerged. A hidden speaker deep within the trunk of the tree played music - a special symphony arranged for the occasion.

"Behold," the Prime Minister said. "A solution. Since the Meiji Restoration, the Japanese nation has embraced the new, but has kept to its traditions. It has combined the old and the new to create something that is uniquely Japanese. Our nation has also faced wars and natural disasters. These have shaken us, but we have always rebuilt afterwards.

"I see these new trees as a fusion of past and the future. I see them as our answer to the disaster that has threatened the soul of our nation. I see them as something we shall embrace."

His message went out live to the nation. The people listened and watched at home, on the streets and on their tablets and phones.

The next year, the streets and parks of Japan glowed pink, and synthetic music filled the air.