The Algorithm of Spring

69

The National Museum of Korea came into view as she exited Ichon Station. Its massive structure commanded the landscape, modern architecture imposed over ancient ground. Families with young children clutched tickets, foreign tourists consulted guidebooks, and elderly Koreans moved in unhurried groups toward the entrance.

Maya checked her watch—9:40. Following Min-seo's instructions, she bypassed the main entrance for the path around the museum's east side. The pagoda garden lay ahead, visible through breaks in the tree line. Her device stayed in her pocket—silenced, but present. If Jun-ho sensed trouble, he'd send a single message: a Kakao emoticon of Ryan the Lion in a flying cape. Their makeshift code for "get the hell out of there." She hated how natural it felt now—building escape plans into ordinary mornings.

The garden revealed itself gradually—stone paths winding between carefully placed boulders, wooden pavilions offering shade to visitors. A three-tiered pagoda occupied the centre, its traditional form standing defiant against the museum's modern bulk. Several benches circled the area, some occupied by elderly visitors enjoying the morning quiet.

She spotted the designated bench near the eastern corner. Empty for now. Maya positioned herself with a clear view, pretending to study a plaque describing the garden's design.

Jun-ho appeared ten minutes later, approaching from the opposite direction. He glanced toward her once, a brief acknowledgment, before settling on a different bench. To anyone watching, they were strangers sharing only location, not purpose.

The minutes ticked by. Museum staff moved between exhibits. A group of schoolchildren filed along a walkway, their excited voices cutting through the garden's tranquility. Maya resisted the urge to check her watch again.

At precisely ten, an elderly man in pressed trousers and a windbreaker entered the garden, moving with the purposeful rhythm of a daily routine. As he passed Jun-ho's bench, he bent to adjust his shoe, muttering a phrase too low to catch — a signal meant only for Jun-ho.

Jun-ho's posture straightened slightly—a confirmation. This was their contact.

The old man continued his circuit around the pagoda, stopping occasionally to stretch or admire a particular view. His route brought him closer to Maya's position, his movements unhurried, almost deliberately forgettable.

When he reached the plaque she'd been pretending to read, he paused beside her.

"Beautiful garden," he said, his voice carrying the weight of decades. "I come here every morning." He didn't look at her directly, his attention seemingly on the pagoda ahead.

"It's my first time," Maya replied, the agreed response.

"Then you must see it properly." The old man gestured toward a bench positioned between two pine trees. "That spot offers the best view."

Maya followed his direction, settling onto the bench. Moments later, the man joined her, leaving a respectful distance between them. From this position, they had a clear view in all directions. Jun-ho remained on his bench, positioned to raise alarm if needed.

The old man laced his fingers together, a gesture both careful and weary. "I don't have much time," he said, his voice low but clear. "And what I tell you places us both at risk."

Maya studied him from the corner of her eye. Not what she'd expected – no nervous twitches, no darting glances. Just an elderly gentleman who carried himself with the quiet confidence and dignity of someone who'd spent a lifetime in government service.

"Why help us?" she asked.

The man adjusted his position, wincing slightly at what might have been joint pain. "Because I have grandchildren," he said simply. "And the future HarmoniQ is building for them is not the country I served."