The Algorithm of Spring

70

The old man let the silence stretch, watching sparrows hop between stone lanterns. His weathered hands rested on his knees, fingers bent with age. Maya waited, understanding the value of patience. In the distance, Jun-ho pretended to check his device, his attention never fully leaving them.

"Thirty-two years in the National Statistics Office," the man finally said. "Demographic trends, population projections, birth rates—watching the numbers fall." He nodded toward a school group filing past. "When I started, Korea's fertility rate was nearly 2.6. Now it's dropped below 0.6. Do you know what that means in practical terms?"

Maya shook her head slightly.

"Each generation less than half the size of the previous one," he scoffed, the sound carrying more exhaustion than humour. "I've watched the numbers fall year after year. Made presentations to ministers who wouldn't listen until it was too late. Created contingency plans gathering dust on bureaucratic shelves."

A museum guard strolled by, radio clipped to his belt, emitting occasional bursts of static. The old man paused, resuming his exercise routine - stretching his arms, rotating his shoulders. Only when the guard disappeared around the pagoda did he continue.

"Two years ago, they finally listened. Korea's population projections had become impossible to ignore." He paused. "Though they'd been impossible to ignore for more than a decade, in my opinion. At current rates, we'll be in a graveyard spiral by century's end. I kept repeating the warnings. The economic consequences alone..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "They eventually formed a special department. Not official. Not on any government registry."

"Nexus," Maya murmured — the word more a question than a statement.

The old man gave her a sharp look. "You've heard of us?"

The word caught her off guard. Us. Not them.

"We've heard hints, rumours," she admitted. "Nothing concrete."

He nodded thoughtfully. "You wouldn't. We operate outside normal channels. The finest minds from every ministry — data scientists from Statistics Korea, behavioural analysts from the Ministry of Health, even policy strategists from the Blue House — all given unlimited resources and a single directive: reverse the decline. Whatever it takes."

His calm recounting made Maya's spine tingle more than any dramatic revelation could have. The matter-of-fact way he described it—a reasonable response to an existential threat.

"And HarmoniQ was your solution."

"One of many theoretical initiatives." He resumed watching the sparrows. "Alongside financial incentives for families. Corporate childcare programmes. Housing subsidies. But those only work on people who've already chosen to have children. We needed to address the root cause—fewer people forming families, fewer relationships leading to a place where potential children might even be a discussion."

A gust of wind sent fallen leaves skittering across the stone path. In the distance, Jun-ho leaned forward, maintaining his vigil.

"Alan Richards approached us. He'd been advising us informally for years." The old man continued. "The artist—a patriot who's been passionate about this subject for years. He'd developed a sophisticated matching algorithm—claimed it could predict compatibility with unprecedented accuracy. We provided funding, access to databases, and governmental support—all off the books, of course."

"Alan Richards." The name landed in her mind with unbearable clarity. She bit down hard.

For a moment the garden noise thinned, as if the world were pulling back to watch her reaction.

Richards. Her artistic hero. Her creative North Star. The painter whose work had defined her university years, whose exhibition in Beijing she'd stood before for solace as she made one of the hardest decisions of her life. The artist whose chaotic beauty had inspired her own creative journey.

That Alan Richards was behind HarmoniQ? The thought felt impossible — and yet horribly inevitable.