The Algorithm of Spring

25

Maya stood before her massive plexiglass screen, her reflection fractured into shifting planes of light—splintered, the way her thinking felt lately. The interface pulsed in its idle state, a steady rhythm that had once felt like an extension of her own breath—now, its faint warmth unsettled her. Behind the screen, a tangled mess of dusty wires and circuitry crept up the walls—their disorder a quiet rebellion—one of the few things in her life not optimised.

For months since Florence, she'd been steadily churning out commissioned pieces—safe, predictable, profitable. Well, hopefully profitable. Nothing like the work that had earned Yeon-joo's admiration at the makgeolli bar. The memory of Yeon-joo's enthusiasm made her wince. 'Your visual approach kept pulling me back,' she'd said—as if speaking about someone else.

Maya pressed her palms against the cool surface of her workstation, steadying herself. Today was different. No client, no brief, no boundaries. It was time to confront the creative block that had followed her home from Italy.

With tentative movements, she began to carve shapes from nothing—then, frustrated, let crimson shatter the framework with a sharp gesture. The AI responded instantly—smoothing, bleeding, crushing her jagged mark. It corrected her with the tenderness of a guillotine, each streak met the same fate: smoothed into submission. No matter how far she strayed, it always pulled her back, nudging her toward the path she'd taught it to walk.

Her frustration built like a wave. A swipe of her hand reduced the image to digital dust. She started over, more aggressive now. Claw-like lines ripped through space. Colours clashed and screamed, lashing out. The AI hesitated before its programming reasserted control. Her palette dulled to whispers. Her anger blunted—filed down to something polite.

She backed away from the screen, hands trembling slightly. The system she'd trained for years had stopped following her. It was shepherding her.

The rain that had begun yesterday during their time with Yeon-joo still pattered against her studio windows. Maya opened one slightly, letting the damp air filter in as she retrieved a beer from her small fridge. She pressed the cold bottle against her temple before taking a long pull, her eyes following droplets racing sideways down the glass.

Yeon-joo's words echoed in her mind: "We all have limited time, so why not streamline your decisions?" The young woman had been unabashedly ambitious, pushing forward, reshaping herself. For all Jun-ho's concerns, his sister had been alive with purpose—moving, choosing, deciding. Maya, by contrast, felt stagnant—treading water.

Her device lay face-down on the desk. She picked it up, scrolling absently until she found herself opening HarmoniQ. The icon pulsed once—almost as if pleased. Yeon-joo had mentioned something about a map feature. "The interface is beautiful," she'd said.