The Algorithm of Spring

46

A sleek black Kawasaki pulled up at her street's corner, its vintage lines a throwback to pre-digital days. Jun-ho straddled it, dark hair spilling across his brow, helmet cradled under one arm. The morning chill clung to his shirt, sleeves rolled to reveal ink curling along his forearms.

"Here," he said, tossing her the spare helmet.

She brushed a dent on the bike's frame, wondering which corner of Seoul had left its mark. She understood—Seoul was leaving its mark on her too. The engine idled, exhaling warm metal, burnt oil, and a bite of petrol—the scent of miles already lived.

They wove through Hongdae's tight lanes, past cafés where students hunched over tablets, past galleries where her digital art had hung only yesterday. Maya clung to Jun-ho's waist as they leaned into turns, the city's volume notching up with each passing district. The bike's raw growl sliced through it all.

The Han River glittered ahead, sunlight skipping across its surface in broken shards. Crossing Mapo Bridge, Maya caught their reflection in a bus window—two figures on an old bike, a fleeting snapshot from a life that used to feel simpler.

Jun-ho steered them through Itaewon's narrow alleys, where traces of old Seoul still held on. Women hawked bungeoppang from carts, the fish-shaped pastries steaming in their moulds. Grilled corn mixed with coffee from American-style haunts—the city's layers held in a precarious, taut balance.

They passed Jogye Temple, its tiled roof peeking between modern slabs. A monk in grey robes stepped out, beads clicking softly as he scrolled on a device.

Maya pressed closer as they dodged delivery bikes, stacked boxes swaying with orders. Gangnam loomed ahead, its rice-paddy past buried under a century of glass and steel, its wide streets a showcase of wealth's reach.

The Hyundai Department Store rose in front of them—fifteen floors of polished grandeur, perched on streets once lined with market stalls. Jun-ho tucked the bike into a side alley.

"Ready?" he asked, taking her helmet.

Maya nodded, her grip easing on the strap. The air carried Gangnam's signature—designer fragrance, fresh cement, and beneath them both, the faint echo of buried fields.