The Algorithm of Spring

113

Maya's foot caught on the loose floor tile as she entered her mother's apartment block. The familiar stumble brought a smile to her face. The stairwell carried the unmistakable scent of gochujang and floor cleaner, the beige walls freshly painted but still that same institutional shade. She paused on the third-floor landing, catching Jun-ho watching her.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Just remembering," Maya said. "Every Sunday after art class, I'd trip on that same tile. Umma always said she'd fix it someday."

Jun-ho smiled. "Some things are fine as they are."

The door to her mother's apartment swung open before Maya could knock. Umma stood there, wiping her hands on an apron stained by hours of cooking—splashes of red pepper paste, sesame oil streaks, small burns from over the years.

"You're late," she said, though the corners of her mouth softened.

"Traffic," Maya replied, pressing her cheek against her mother's.

Jun-ho bowed slightly at the threshold, offering a small box tied with ribbon. "For you," he said. "Thank you for inviting me."

Umma's eyebrows lifted as she accepted the gift, her gaze turning appraising. "Come in," she said. "Don't let all the heat out."

The apartment was unchanged—shelves crowded with porcelain figurines, faded postcards, and souvenirs gathered from stories rather than journeys. Framed photos chronicled Maya's childhood in sequence. A small orchid sat in front of the unplugged TV.

The kitchen pulled them in with waves of scent—simmering beef bones, garlic, green onion, sesame oil, and the sharp edge of sliced ginger. Jun-ho moved instinctively toward the stove, where a stone pot of galbi-jjim bubbled quietly, its broth rich and golden.

"Would you like some help, ajumeonim?" he asked, using the respectful term for someone else's mother.

Umma's surprise shifted to curiosity. "You cook?"

"Yes," Jun-ho said simply. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing the dark swirl of a tattoo at his wrist. The ink seemed incongruous in Umma's kitchen, a modern mark against the backdrop of scarred cutting boards and knives worn thin with use.

"You can slice the mushrooms," she decided, pushing a board toward him. Plump pyogo mushrooms soaked in a bowl beside it, their earthy scent rising as he lifted them. "Very thin. For the garnish."

Maya sat at the small kitchen table, watching with quiet astonishment as Jun-ho selected the smallest knife and began slicing the mushrooms with rhythmic, even strokes.

On the stove, the galbi-jjim continued its slow simmer—short ribs and daikon radish just visible beneath the broth, a thin layer of rendered fat clinging to the edges. Umma worked beside him, preparing namul: squeezing blanched spinach into neat bunches, seasoning them with sesame oil and garlic in between spooning fat from the surface of the bubbling galbi-jjim. Her movements were swift and sure, shaped by memory.

"Did you bring the soju?" she asked without looking up.

Maya pulled six bottles from her bag. "And beer. For mixing somaek."

"Good." Umma nodded, now working salt through a bowl of crisp bean sprouts. "Your cousin called. He's bringing Yeon-joo."

Jun-ho's knife paused just briefly. "That'll be nice," he said, casually.

Maya watched him return to his task, creating translucent slivers that would dissolve into the broth. Outside, evening cast long shadows across tiled rooftops. A radio played softly in the next room—an old trot song about waiting for someone who never returns.