The Algorithm of Spring

Three

In the taxi back to her hotel, she rested her forehead against the window. The city lights streaked past in hazy blurs, fractured by the glass. Her abdomen pulsed with each jolt of the road, each lurching stop. Neon signs buzzed in the humid Beijing night. Couples laughed at pavement cafés, and the city moved on, as indifferent to her as the clinic had been.

She closed her eyes, pressing a hand over the dull ache in her stomach. She hadn't let herself think about it before. Now, her thoughts came in jagged bursts—fragmented, sharp. The procedure had been illegal in Korea for years. Only by travelling abroad, under the guise of a work trip, could it be done. Regret had no place here. Only the cold, clinical finality of what had already been done.

The scalding shower water was almost unbearable on her skin as she peeled off her clothes back at the hotel. It wasn't cleansing—nothing about the day felt clean. She scrubbed her arms, legs, stomach, hands. Again. And again. She wanted to peel herself raw, to scrape away the sterile clinic, the cold instruments, the nurse's monotone voice.

But the weight wouldn't budge.

                                                                                          ***

Before her flight, Maya returned to the gallery—the painting's pull stronger than the airport's clamour.

The hollow quiet of yesterday had given way to tourists with audio guides and students hunched over sketch pads, capturing sculptures in charcoal lines. The Richards painting waited.

Her reflection in the glass seemed smaller today—hair pulled back, jacket travel-worn, bag strap cutting into her shoulder. Where the canvas projected chaos, she felt... contained. Diminished, perhaps. Or just different.

Visitors moved between exhibits, their paths directed by staff near the entrance. She'd considered checking her suitcase, but decided against it. Better not to linger. Keep moving.

The painting waited. This time, its silence felt different. The anger from yesterday had settled, replaced by something quieter. It was no longer an accuser, but a witness. As if it had seen everything she'd been through since their last meeting and had simply stopped judging her.

Her device chimed. She expected the airline confirmation, but found HarmoniQ's stylised heart glowing steadily on the screen. She almost laughed. What had been invasive yesterday now felt ridiculous—a joke she was only beginning to understand. More persistent than her boyfriend had ever been. She deleted it without hesitation, watched it reappear, then closed it with a shrug. The app had faded into background noise, like the cameras tracing her movements or the murmur of voices filling the gallery.

Maya stepped closer, her suitcase wheels catching on uneven spots in the concrete floor. The gallery's climate control raised goosebumps on her arms. She leaned in, tracing the bold strokes again with her eyes. Beneath the dominant blues—deeper than any ocean, darker than twilight—faint veins of green threaded the canvas, subtle and deliberate, like algae trapped beneath ice. Each brushstroke told its own story of hesitation or certainty, of moments when the artist's hand had trembled or struck true.

Each visit to the painting unveiled a new secret. Today it was the way a particular shadow gathered in the lower left corner—not quite black, but something more complex. A darkness that breathed or pulsed. For the first time in years, her fingers ached for the familiar weight of a paintbrush—for the smell of oils and turpentine, for the quiet hours before dawn when the world belonged to colour and light.

She took a step back, letting her gaze absorb the entire scene. The Richards she'd worshipped as a student was gone. In its place stood something else—not a reflection of her ambitions or her failures, but a new kind of conversation. A quiet offering from a friend who understood. A transitional place. A place to begin again—make something new.

Outside, the relentless humid air wrapped around her like a heavy coat as she climbed into the waiting taxi. The stiff leather seats creaked, warm from the day's heat. She pulled out her device to confirm the ride, checking the airport address one last time.

HarmoniQ's heart glowed on her home screen.

This time, she opened it.

The screen pulsed blue, like a dying star, then went dark.

The app deleted itself.