The Algorithm of Spring

47

Maya tilted her head, watching Osulloc span three floors of the Hyundai Department Store—its interior a clash of science lab starkness, airport hangar sprawl, and luxurious cave gloom. A slab of raw granite stood in as the maître d's podium, veined like stress fractures, as if the tea's bitter heat had fused these jagged aesthetics into uneasy balance. Maya felt the place pressing inward, as if the design itself wanted to judge her.

The air swirled with roasted green tea, winding around Gangnam mothers lingering over their cups—elegance framed like a Titanic lounge, reimagined by Tadao Ando.

Screens styled like traditional scrolls floated above the entrance, softly glowing with bespoke blends shaped from customers' previous visits. A nod to heritage, bent gently by tech's invisible hand.

She spotted Min-ji at a corner table. As they neared the entrance to Osulloc, Jun-ho stopped her with a light touch on her arm.

"I'll wait out here," he said quietly, his eyes scanning the department store's open-plan layout. "This conversation needs to be just you and her. No distractions."

Maya nodded, appreciating the space he was giving them. "Okay. I don't know how long I'll be."

"Take your time," he replied. "I'll find a spot nearby. Text me when you're clear."

He gave a subtle nod and melted back toward the main thoroughfare of the store, leaving Maya to face her cousin alone. Taking a steadying breath, she crossed the floor to the corner table.

"You came," Min-ji said, her voice catching as she rose for an embrace that landed awkward and half-meant. Her smile tried to form, then abandoned the attempt halfway.

"I ordered for us," she added, settling back. "The screen remembered your last pick when I gave your name." Her fingers hovered at the table's edge, not quite resting.

Through the glass, Gangnam's towers mirrored each other, steel facades locked in an endless recursion.

A server arrived with tea in ceramic cups glazed Osulloc's signature green, the colour catching light like damp moss on stone.

"He's flawless," Min-ji said after a pause, her voice snagging on the word. "Ninety-eight percent compatibility. Do you know how rare that is?" Her laugh came brittle—sharp, brief, enough to draw a glance from a nearby patron before it fractured into silence.

"Our values align," she added, eyes fixed on some point beyond the table. "Our goals match. Even our sleep cycles sync."

She faltered, staring into her tea like it held the thread of her thoughts.

Maya noticed her cousin's fingers drumming the cup's rim—a quick, precise rhythm that wasn't her usual fidget. Each table offered a privacy screen that could be activated with a simple tap. An urge rose in Maya to create a shield for them, a small pocket of safety in this public space. In Seoul, she thought, even privacy had a price tag.

"The wedding photos turned out beautifully," Maya offered gently, buying time.

Their feeds had brimmed with the album for weeks.

"They tweaked the photos after," Min-ji said, voice low. "Just small flaws. Mostly mine, of course. Like they did with my..." Her fingers brushed along her jaw, then dropped.

"You can reshape anything now," she murmured. "Hone it sharp." Her gaze flicked to the nearby mothers—their designer bags neatly stacked, their kids' accolades braided into their conversation like garnish. 

"Min-ji—"

"He still suggests tweaks," she said, cutting in. "Nothing huge. Just... refinements. My hobbies. My friends. Even my laugh—like it's not quite calibrated. He looks at me like I'm faulty," she said, her hands bracing the table. "Like he's trying to figure out how to return a product that wasn't what was advertised." Her hand kept drifting to her ring as if checking it was still attached to her.

Maya stayed silent.

"I thought it would stop after the wedding," Min-ji whispered. "That if I got it right, they'd ease off. But they don't. They just... find new angles. New ways to shape me." She looked up, eyes pleading. "When does it stop?"

A silence settled between them—dense and taut.

Then, softer, almost afraid: "Last week, I was alone. I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror, whilst cleaning the hall outside. And I didn't recognise myself. I stared for minutes, trying to recall my old face. It was like looking at a stranger who had borrowed my expressions."

Maya studied her cousin—the polished exterior, the poise, the faint tremor beneath it all. A canvas buckling under too many retouches.

Outside, young professionals threaded between the towers, each carved to a faultless cut.

Min-ji's device lit up: HarmoniQ: Your husband has noticed mood fluctuations. Would you like to schedule a joint consultation?

A server approached but retreated as tension rose around their table.

"They're always watching," Min-ji breathed. "Always nudging. Even now, they're probably tracking every step I take."

She looked up, her voice trembling. "How do you do it? Stay... you, when everything keeps pulling you apart?"

Maya tightened her grip around her cup. She wanted to tell Min-ji she was still in there—that the fractures didn't erase her. But the words wouldn't come.

A tea master approached, sensing their cups had cooled. Min-ji blinked—face smoothing instantly, the veil sliding back into place.

"I shouldn't have said anything," she muttered. "The metrics don't lie. I just need to try harder. Be more... whatever it is they want."

Her hand brushed the ring again. It caught the light like an answer.

"They funded half of it, you know. The dress. The venue. Even the photos. A 'HarmoniQ Success Story' package." She laughed, brittle again. "It's all part of the design."

She stood, gathering her things too fast.

"Don't tell anyone. I'll fix it. I'll improve."

Maya wanted to stop her. To say she didn't need fixing. But Min-ji was already walking away, her silhouette dissolving into the tea shop's glow—another outline nudged closer to the mould.