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The Trace That Faded
Marta wanted a route that would still make sense after somebody blocked an aisle. A picker was waiting. The map from the start of the shift was already wrong. In her notes sat a line she refused to lean on: the whole human brain runs on about twenty watts. She was not going to build a brain before lunch. She needed the picker to stop walking into a wall of pallets.
That morning she had tried a genetic algorithm on the map as it stood. A population of candidate routes, the fitter ones kept, pieces of two routes swapped, a few random edits so the set did not freeze. Selection, crossover, and mutation had given her a route she could trust in a building that stayed still. This building did not. She could run the population again.