The Algorithm of Spring

76

The Urban Print Collective occupied three floors of a narrow building wedged between electronics shops in Euljiro. Once a commercial printing press, the space had been reclaimed by a group of artists and craftspeople—letterpress, screen printing, woodblock—people who needed room to make a mess.

Maya had discovered it during her first year of art school, seeking anything with grit or grain to disrupt the sterile perfection of her early digital work. She kept coming back. It was the one place in Seoul where her mind didn't feel monitored.

She climbed the staircase to the rooftop, passing workshops where the smell of paper, ink, and adhesive dominated. The ink and paper scents reminded her of the first time she'd been here, a time before her most private choice was public spectacle.

The rooftop garden was a hidden oasis amid Euljiro's urban sprawl. Potted trees created natural walls, while repurposed printing plates served as planters for herbs and flowering vines. Old typesetting drawers had been converted into miniature succulent gardens, each compartment holding a different variety. The owner, Mr. Kang, had been collecting fallen metal type for decades, insisting that even broken letters deserved a second life.

Maya found a bench tucked between shelves of potted plants, partially hidden from view. From here, she could see neighbouring rooftops where other small urban gardens and solar panels competed for space. Seoul stretched beyond, its skyline punctuated by construction cranes—the city constantly reshaping itself, just as she would need to after today.

She pulled her legs up onto the bench, wrapping her arms around her knees. She watched as deliverymen darted between traffic on mopeds. Office workers manoeuvred between buildings with coffee cups in hand. Normal life, carrying on.

The morning's revelation pressed against her, heavy enough to change her posture.
It shouldn't have surprised her.

The old man had confirmed as much in the museum garden. But knowing it intellectually was different from experiencing the brutal reality of it. The exposure felt like theft.

Footsteps on the metal stairs pulled her from her thoughts. Maya tensed, ready to retreat further into the garden's small hiding places. But it was only Mr. Kang, carrying a tray with a teapot and two cups.

"I thought I might find you here," he said, setting the tray on a small table near her bench. "You have that look again. And I always bring two cups. Most people don't come up here unless they need company, even if they don't realise it yet."

"What look?" Maya asked.

"The same one you had when those galleries rejected your early work." He poured tea into both cups. "Like you're trying to solve a puzzle but someone's hidden half the pieces."

Maya accepted the cup he offered, the warmth seeping into her cold fingers. "It's more complicated this time."

Mr. Kang settled onto the bench across from her, his weathered hands wrapping around his own cup. He didn't press for details, content to sit in companionable silence amid his garden. At seventy-three, he claimed to have seen every possible human drama unfold. His favourite observation: 'new technology just gives us new ways to make the same old mistakes.'

Maya sipped her tea. "Do you ever regret not going digital when you had the chance?" she asked. "The printing business would have been less hassle."

"Easier isn't always better," Mr. Kang said. "Some things should remain touched by human hands. Craft takes time." He gestured toward a nearby plant growing through an old letterpress drawer. "Like this garden. It's inefficient, yes. High-maintenance, certainly. But it's mine. No one tells me which plants should grow where. People seem to like it and I very much enjoy working on it, but yes, it would be easier if I hired a gardener..."

Maya caught the parallel immediately. A smile tugged at her lips. "You're trying to make a point."

"Am I?" Mr. Kang asked innocently.

She heard the rooftop door open below — not Kang's shuffling gait but something steadier, more deliberate. Jun-ho appeared at the rooftop entrance, scanning the garden until he spotted Maya. Relief crossed his features briefly before he composed himself.

Mr. Kang stood, gathering his empty cup. "I'll bring another cup for your friend."

"How did you find me?" Maya asked as Jun-ho approached.

"I tried the device I gave you, but you didn't answer," Jun-ho said, settling onto the bench Mr. Kang had vacated. "I got worried. Then I remembered you mentioned this place once, and that the name was stencilled on that tote bag you carry sometimes. Figured it was worth a look."

Maya nodded, unsurprised by his attention to detail. "I said I wanted to be alone."

"I know. I gave you three hours. It's almost two."