The Algorithm of Spring

Four

Wheels down. Incheon Airport. No checked luggage. She exited through the arrivals gate beneath a fifty-foot Chanel digital billboard—a Caucasian model with a deliberate gap between her front teeth hoisting a quilted pink handbag as if it were a crown jewel. 

The journey into Seoul was as routine as her walk to the corner store: bullet train into the city, just long enough to switch off and sip an iced americano, condensation racing down the plastic cup. Seoul Express Bus Terminal loomed—brutalist, gray. A short walk to bus port 37, the convenience stores a blur of familiarity. Skewered odeng from the same stall she'd been visiting for half her life. The bubbling cauldron of hot broth served in the tiniest of paper cups was as much a part of her homecoming as the path to umma's door.

Aboard the bus, the lights dimmed as soon as it left Seoul. Destination: umma. The bus was just as she remembered—always too hot, with people sleeping no matter how short the trip. Dozens of seatback screens glowed in the dark. Games, webtoons, variety shows. She pivoted between them, head resting on the seatback cushion, the screens impossible to ignore.

By the time she reached her stop, exhaustion hung from every muscle. The journey had left her hollowed out, scraped clean of everything except bone-deep weariness. She dropped her luggage by the door and tried not to wince as she bent down to take off her shoes. Her fingers fumbled with the laces, clumsy with fatigue.

Comforting smells drifted from the kitchen—warm, rich: soy and garlic, the sweet undertone of pears simmering in soup. The scent of her childhood home.

The stone floor felt cold beneath her stockinged feet.

She called out, "umma," to no response, hearing a variety show playing from somewhere. She escaped to the bathroom to fix her face. When she emerged, the suitcase was gone—no doubt being sifted through and sorted somewhere in the apartment. Her mother didn't look up as Maya entered the kitchen. She didn't ask about the trip, didn't mention the faint pallor in Maya's face or the way she moved stiffly, deliberately.

Later, Maya sat at the dining table in her usual chair, staring at the bowl of miyeok-guk her mother placed before her. The seaweed soup—nourishing, restorative—was traditionally made for postpartum recovery. The broth's aroma was deep, earthy, almost medicinal, filling the quiet space between them.

She stared at it, her throat dry.

Maybe her mother knew.

Maybe she'd just made it out of habit.

The thought settled like a stone, distorting everything.

She raised her spoon and took a sip. Piping hot. Flavours grounding. But each mouthful only deepened the knot across her shoulders—gratitude laced with something harder to name. A tension.

She picked at the banchan—her mother had laid out a fresh batch of kimchi alongside a few of Maya's favourites, plated on a mismatch of small dishes collected over the years. Souvenir trinkets from a life spent trying to hold things together, quietly.

Her mother had helped her—offered discreet guidance, laying out options without judgement or suggestion, though Maya suspected she knew what she would have preferred. She'd managed not to probe for details, not to ask which decision Maya had reached. The quiet of the room pressed down now—an unspoken accusation. Or sympathy. Maya couldn't tell. Maybe it was both.

Silence reigned throughout their meal. Loneliness. A circle of one.

Maya set the spoon down, her fingers lingering on the metal handle. Her mother busied herself at the sink, movements brisk, masking emotions Maya couldn't read. Her need for her umma was overwhelming—a burden she couldn't bring herself to place on her. The silence settled, a wall she couldn't breach.