The Algorithm of Spring

25

Maya stood before her massive plexiglass screen, her reflection fractured into shifting planes of light—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 yet 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 Florence.

With tentative movements, she began to carve shapes from nothing—then, frustrated, let crimson rupture 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.

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 tore 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 now.

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 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, committing. Maya, by contrast, felt stagnant, treading water.

Her device lay 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.

A notification banner slid in at the edge of her screen, pale and unobtrusive.

Creative Continuity Initiative
Eligibility Notice

She frowned faintly and tapped it.

The message opened into a clean, text-heavy page. No logos she recognised. No images. Just information.

Based on your recent activity and professional history, you may qualify for transitional creative support designed to reduce precarity during independent practice.

She skimmed.

Participants receive a guaranteed monthly stipend, administrative support, and pre-committed acquisition pathways for approved work.

Her thumb paused.

This pilot programme prioritises creators working outside traditional institutional frameworks, ensuring continuity of practice while protecting cultural value from speculative dilution.

At the bottom of the page, a single line waited:

Explore eligibility requirements

No deadline.
No warning.
No demand.

The rain tapped steadily against the window.

Maya locked the screen without clicking further and set the device face-down again—her attention already drifting back to the map view.