The Algorithm of Spring

49

The tteokbokki sauce bubbled in its wide metal pot—the same deep red it had been since Maya was fourteen, studying at Ewha Girls' Foreign Language High School, when her appa's import-export business still thrived, before it all fell apart. Steam curled in the cramped shop, misting a faded photo of the owner's grandchildren—smiles blurred beneath curled plastic.

"Aigo, you're too thin," the owner teased, stirring the sauce with a worn spoon. The shop's odd, triangular nook—barely big enough for four plastic stools and the eternal tteokbokki tray—felt carved from necessity. Maybe to squeeze in a backroom toilet. Maya had never thought to ask.

Through the open door, Seochon's evening sang: the knife-sharpener's whistle, the clatter of chopsticks from nearby diners, elders shuffling to the bathhouse, the occasional tourist trying not to look lost.

Maya inhaled the familiar sting of gochugaru and anchovy stock. She'd craved this taste all day—not Gangnam's deconstructed takes, but this shop's stubborn sameness.

"You want extra?" the owner asked, already reaching for a bowl. Her hands moved fast beneath her smile—quick as a card dealer hiding an ace. Extra fish cake slid in without question, a nod to Maya's hagwon-rushing teenage days.

The bowl landed in front of her, its sauce a rich, glossy lacquer. A decade of memories in a single scent.

"Your umma hasn't dropped by lately," the owner said... Maya nodded, a pang of guilt hitting her. She hadn't spoken to her mother in days. A hollow pinch spread behind her ribs—a familiar ache she'd learned to postpone. Guilt was easy to postpone; confrontation never was.

To deflect, she pulled out her device.

She scanned it against the new payment terminal—a grudging addition pushed by the owner's son.

"Even KakaoPay's in HarmoniQ's pocket now," the woman muttered, shaking her head. "And they're both in mine."

The screen flashed red:

Transaction cannot be completed. A small silence spread—one of those thin, brittle pauses where the world seems to lean in just to watch you falter.

"Aish, this thing." The owner rapped the device with her knuckles. "I don't know why we ever stopped using cash." She eyed the bowl, then Maya. "Just pay me another ti—"

Maya cut her off, waving a hand, pockets empty. "No, I can't. Really."

The woman hesitated—caught between kindness and Maya's refusal.

Maya forced a smile, bowing slightly. "Next time. I'm sorry. I hope you can resell it."

Walking away felt like severing a thread—she left the bowl untouched, its warmth trailing her out, along with the shop owner's gentle calls of protest.

Outside, Seochon's chill bit at her skin. Her reflection flickered in the shop window—familiar, but less certain. She turned into Seochon's alleys, where tile-roofed homes huddled close, their walls gripping the past. An ajumma sorted recycling.

Her device vibrated.

Min-seo: Keep moving until I can show you what's on the drive. From the online chatter, I'm pretty sure they're watching you now—they can tell someone's probing the system. You're suspect number one. Stay visible, but act normal.

Maya typed back: Heading to Gwangjang Market.

She aimed for the main street, hoping a bus waited, idling. Neon bled through the alley's throat, the city widening again around her.

Restless to keep moving, she pressed on. Grilled meat and a sharp, unfamiliar tang hung in the air.

Behind her, the tteokbokki shop's steam curled into the night—a fading trace of what used to feel like hers—and what she knew she was close to losing entirely.