The Algorithm of Spring

Two

The device buzzed in her hand, a sharp jolt, and the screen blinked off entirely. The sudden darkness mirrored her frustration.

She stared at the black screen, waiting. Slowly, it glowed back to life, the brightness building like sunrise over the horizon. When the home screen reappeared, she scanned it carefully.

The app was gone.

Then, without warning, the logo reappeared—perfectly intact.

She frowned, thoughts snagging. Had she downloaded this? Maybe she'd forgotten. Or was it pre-installed? A bug? Some promotional gimmick? The timing was uncanny, intruding on her already fragmented mind. The emotionally draining day ahead amplified it—a meaningless distraction looming larger than it should.

She stole a glance at the cameras in the corners. Was her mind playing tricks, or had one adjusted focus, as if this were some bizarre social experiment? A Chinese reality TV show, perhaps? The cameras hadn't moved, yet their presence seemed to thicken. Silent. Watchful.

Maya dropped the device into her bag and turned back to the painting. The moment was gone, swallowed by the app's persistence, buzzing like a mosquito. She'd restart it at the hotel, fix the glitch.

Her steps quickened toward the exit, an irrational beat of guilt—as if she'd turned her back mid-sentence. She couldn't meet its gaze.

Behind her, the painting's jagged strokes threw not a question, but a rebuke—one she wasn't ready to face. Not yet.

***

Beijing's downpour had followed her, uninvited.

The room exuded clinical precision—even lighting, institutional walls, and a faint antiseptic bite that clung to the air. Maya sat in a hard plastic chair—one she recognised as a mid-century knock-off and wished her design-trained eye would take a day off. Her palms pressed against her knees as she stared down at the digital form.

The receptionist didn't spare her a glance, gesturing at the blank lines.

Her pen hovered over the name field. For a moment, her real name lingered. Then she wrote a borrowed one: Choi Hwa-young. Distant, unremarkable—just anonymous enough to fade into the background.

Her stomach twisted as she handed the tablet back. The desk's cool surface brushed her fingertips, grounding her for a brief second. The receptionist took it without looking, already calling the next name. Maya's anonymity was intact, but it felt hollow, meaningless under the weight of what lay ahead.

"Miss Choi?"

The nurse's voice was soft, clipped, almost robotic. Maya stood, her legs leaden, and followed. The hallway stretched longer than expected, extending far beyond the modest reception area. She imagined cubicles being scrubbed clean after every patient, every trace erased, the chemical scent thickening with each step. Discordant beeps from unseen machinery punctuated the air, their rhythm jarring against her own uneven breaths.

The procedure was swift, efficient, impersonal. The doctor barely met her eyes. A sharp sting, the chill of metal instruments, the steady mechanical workings of the machines—each sensation blurred into the next. She braced for tears that never came, her body rooted in the moment while her mind wandered somewhere far away.

When it was over, the nurse handed her a folded sheet of instructions. "Rest and avoid strenuous activity," she recited, her tone a monotone dulled by repetition. Maya nodded, clutching the paper with numb fingers. Efficient. Final. She was just another name. Another task crossed off the list.

An unfamiliar melodic three-note chime sounded from the device in her bag—three ascending notes, ambient but unsettling, like a lullaby played in reverse.