The Algorithm of Spring

One

Maya's wet shoes squeaked against polished concrete as she entered the Beijing gallery. Outside, the city roared, but in here the vast space swallowed sound, leaving only the ventilation's hum and distant murmurs. The air hung cool and metallic as she wound through the labyrinthine rooms, searching. There it was.

Ahead, an Alan Richards painting dominated the milk-white wall. Massive and raw, the force of it rooted her to the spot. Her reflection trembled in the protective glass—pretty enough, though not by Seoul's relentless standards. In subtle ways, her late twenties were beginning to show. Back home, her umma would have something to say about that—about everything, no doubt.

Above, a surveillance camera blinked, its lens steady and indifferent. Security, obviously. Not personal. Yet the tilt of its head unsettled her. The mechanical eye shifted slightly, its attention deliberate—as if it wasn't entirely convinced she belonged here.

Her device buzzed against her thigh. Work. Or one of the countless pings punctuating her days.

Instead, an unfamiliar icon pulsed on her screen—a stylised heart framed by sleek lines.

Under it: HarmoniQ.

Some gallery app? A proximity feature? The thought didn't sit right. She glanced around for leaflets or signs bearing the logo. Nothing.

She'd first seen this painting as a student. It had struck like lightning—a collision of sharp strokes and wild colour: deep red gashes slicing through icy blues, shattered by flashes of white. Richards' signature layering technique created depths that breathed beneath the surface.

In a way, the painting had helped win her the Florence residency—her portfolio channeling that same unrestrained energy, but through her distinctive digital approach. The tourist board had heavily marketed it: young artists from around the world returning to where it all began—"Back to Florence, back to the beginning." She was meant to represent the best Korea had to offer.

But standing in that Italian studio months ago, brush hovering over canvas, she'd found nothing but silence. Years of tweaking AI parameters had dulled something vital. She'd stayed in Europe, sending carefully worded updates home, too ashamed to admit the truth: the paint wouldn't speak to her anymore.

Up close, the texture was brutal—a battlefield frozen in time. From a distance, it softened, frenzy resolving into a haunting harmony. She'd spent hours studying it over the years, often seeking out the quiet bench before it, drawn back time and again for reasons she couldn't name.

This wasn't a pilgrimage—more like checking in on an old friend marooned in the same city. Someone who might understand.

But today, her old friend seemed angry. The familiar storm of colour no longer felt like a shared secret, but a sharp accusation.

Her professor's words surfaced: The world is as you are.

"Maybe," she murmured.

Her fingers twitched, remembering. Back in Seoul, a blank canvas still leaned against her studio wall—untouched for months. The old rituals—sketching, experimenting, losing herself in the flow—had been replaced by adjusting algorithmic dials. Perfect, hollow images that pleased everyone but herself.

The curious logo still glowed, refusing to disapear. She pressed and held. Uninstall—nothing. She held firm, her thumb pressed against the screen. The app icon shuddered, as if resisting her. Then, the rest of the apps on her home screen flickered and vanished, leaving an empty background.

A flicker of unease. She was used to the rhythms of her device, its seamless motions syncing with her day. It was an extension of her, always close to her palm. But this glitch—this disobedience—felt alien.