The Algorithm of Spring

61

Professor Kim's studio occupied the ground floor of an old house in Seochon that had somehow escaped the district's endless renovation. Maya knew each crack in its walls, every worn floorboard. She'd spent countless hours here as a student—and had practically lived here at times, first in classes, then seeking refuge when her own choices felt too burdensome.

The familiar scent of oil paint and incense greeted her as she entered. Professor Kim had held firm to her boho-hippie look regardless of fashion, standing at a canvas pinned to the wall, silver bangles chiming softly with each brushstroke. Two students sat nearby—Jia and Min-ah, Maya remembered from previous visits. Their sketchbooks lay open but forgotten as they watched their teacher work, asking questions, absorbing wisdom.

"Unni!" Jia jumped up, nearly knocking over her materials. "We saw the videos! What happened to your installation—"

"It was horrible," Min-ah finished. "Jun-ho oppa tried to stop it, didn't he? He was there helping."

Maya flinched slightly at the oppa. It implied a closeness she hadn't consented to. She hadn't realised Jun-ho had become familiar to Professor Kim's students.

Professor Kim set down her brush. "Girls, why don't you pop out and grab some tea? From that place around the corner that we like."

They gathered their things, still chattering about the exhibition as they left. Maya caught fragments—"awesome presentation" and "so punk"—before the door closed behind them.

"Sit," Professor Kim invited, gesturing to the worn sofa where Maya had once curled up crying. "Tell me what happened."

Maya sank into the cushions. Professor Kim's work in progress dominated the opposite wall—part of an abstract series where crimson oil paint interplayed with gold leaf, creating textures that caught light from different angles.

Maya found herself drawn to their immediate presence, the directness of paint on canvas. Something about the certainty of it tugged at her—pigment that stayed where it was placed.  Her world could be rewritten; Professor Kim's could only be painted over. She'd chosen a different path, embracing technology's possibilities despite its vulnerabilities. But after last night, the trade-offs felt painfully stark, her choice dangerously naïve.

"This will sound like I'm losing my mind but the people behind HarmoniQ—they're accessing private medical records," Maya said, as if trying to redirect her own thoughts. "Hospitals abroad. Their reach extends everywhere—even Beijing..." She paused. "I found the name I used when I was there buried in the code they injected into my work. Like a calling card."

Professor Kim went still, her bangles falling silent. She reached out and placed a hand gently on Maya's arm. "Aigo," she breathed, her voice filled with a sudden, sharp anger on Maya's behalf. "How cruel. To use that name... that's not just an attack, Maya, it's a desecration."

She drew back, her expression shifting from empathy to a familiar, analytical frown. "But the logic of it is baffling. Remember how deliberate you were back then. If they have this information, why not simply discredit you? Report you? Why this elaborate, public sabotage? It's like breaking into my studio just to rearrange my paint pots."

"I never told anyone else about that name," Maya said, her voice thin. "Not even my umma."

"Then they must have accessed the clinic's records," Professor Kim concluded, her frown deepening. "Which brings us back to the same question: why?"

The smell of oil paint sharpened in the silence.

"Your umma called me after you returned." Professor Kim's voice carried the warmth that had once made Maya trust her with everything. "She knew you'd been here first, though we never spoke of it directly. She wanted to understand why you couldn't follow the path she'd imagined for you."

Maya swallowed. "What did you tell her?"

"Nothing concrete—just that her daughter was brave enough to make her own choices and I advised her not to question them," Professor Kim replied. "Even the hard ones. The ones society seems determined to shame or punish."

Through the window, Maya watched Jia and Min-ah returning with their bubble teas. They paused to greet another student waiting outside, a girl Maya didn't recognise. What she did notice was the girl's jewellery: a heavy silver crucifix on a long chain, with small matching cross earrings. Maya raised a cynical eyebrow, wondering when the 80s Madonna look had made a comeback.

"Your students seem to know Jun-ho," Maya said, aiming for casual.

"Jealous?" she teased, though her tone stayed gentle. "They've been following your work since their first year. They're quite enamoured with you, if I'm honest. When they heard someone was helping you find your fire again—well, you know how young artists flock to a muse."