The Algorithm of Spring

113

"Maya, set the table," Umma said. "Use the golden bowls. And get the cloth for later."

Maya found the green baize cloth wrapped in tissue in the cabinet—its nap smooth in places from years of use. She spread it over the low table in the living room, smoothing wrinkles with her palm.

In the kitchen, Jun-ho had moved on to the kkakdugi, cubed radish kimchi. His fingers were stained red with pepper flakes as he mixed in garlic and fermented anchovy sauce. Umma watched with grudging approval, adjusting the flame beneath the soup.

"Where'd you learn to cook?" Maya asked.

Jun-ho smiled without looking up. "After my parents died, my grandmother raised us. She thought boys should know how to feed themselves." He sprinkled green onion into the radish mixture. "She had me peeling garlic before I could write my name."

"He knows what he's doing," Umma said, the rare praise unmistakable. "Not like you, Maya. All those lessons and still you burn the rice."

Maya rolled her eyes, but there was no sting. That language between them had changed.

The doorbell rang.

"Make sure the soup doesn't boil over," Umma called, already heading to the door—as though Maya and Jun-ho had always cooked together in her kitchen.

                                                                                        ***

Dinner unfolded in its own comfortable rhythm. Steam rose from bowls of galbi-jjim, the meat falling off the bone at the touch of chopsticks. Small dishes crowded the table: bright kkakdugi, glistening namul, kongnamul sprouts, soy-braised beef with green chili. Brown rice steamed in stone bowls. They wrapped sheets of homemade gim around rice with quick pinches of their chopsticks.

Maya's cousin Dae-sung dominated the conversation, gesturing animatedly between bites.

"You should see it," he said, nearly knocking over his water. "Everyone's forgotten how to talk. Two accountants at my office just discovered they both play jazz piano. Five years working across from each other!"

Yeon-joo sat beside him, a calm counterweight. Their romance had blossomed unexpectedly after HarmoniQ's collapse. Watching her now—catching the subtle flickers of discomfort at Dae-sung's over-enthusiasm—Maya wasn't sure it would last. Then again, maybe his chaotic, unfiltered energy was exactly what Yeon-joo needed. A human antidote to the algorithm's sterile perfection.

Yeon-joo's hair was cut in a sharp bob that framed her face, the sleek corporate style replaced by something less formal. She caught Maya watching and offered a quiet smile.

"This is delicious, eomeonim," she said politely. "I'd forgotten how good proper jip-bab tastes."

Umma nodded, placing another slice of braised beef into Yeon-joo's bowl. "You're too thin. Eat. Build strength."

Yeon-joo bowed her head, the simple instruction visibly comforting her.

                                                                                               ***

After dinner, they gathered around the low table in the living room. Umma retrieved her hwatu cards—thick, palm-sized, beautifully worn—and shuffled them with swift, practiced flicks. Their bright illustrations bloomed against the baize: cherry blossoms, pine trees, cranes, deer.

"Real money," Umma said, placing a stack of 1000-won notes in the center. "No IOUs."

Jun-ho grinned. "I should warn you, I'm terrible at this game."

"Good," Dae-sung said. "I need to recover what I lost last Seollal."

The first hand began. Umma dealt the cards with sharp snaps of her wrists, her fingers still quick and sure. The cards slapped against the baize, each one landing with authority.

The game moved quickly. Players slapped matches onto the table, shouting calls and groaning over missed cards. When Dae-sung captured a valuable animal card, he whooped in victory.

"Another 3,000 won from you, hand it over, Jun-ho!"

Yeon-joo leaned toward Maya. "He's letting him win."

"I noticed," Maya murmured. Jun-ho's attention kept drifting to his sister. He watched her laugh at Dae-sung's theatrical sulking, his own features softening with a quiet, profound relief.

"Yah! Play properly," Umma snapped, though a smile played at the corners of her mouth as she tapped Jun-ho's knee with her fan.

A new round began. Chrysanthemums. Autumn leaves. A poetry card. Yeon-joo grew bolder, snatching matches before Dae-sung could react.

"Good, no mercy," Umma said, lining up her cards with surgical precision.

The game turned rhythmic—sharp smacks, bursts of laughter, quiet calculation. The pile beside Umma grew taller. Her face was unreadable. The only sign of her dominance was the tidy row of captured cards forming a perfect arc in front of her.

"You've developed a killer instinct," Dae-sung said when Maya stole a round.

"Maybe I always had it," she replied, gathering her winnings with quiet satisfaction.

                                                                                                  ***

Three hours later, with Umma's wallet heavier and Dae-sung theatrically declaring bankruptcy, the evening wound down. Yeon-joo and Jun-ho helped gather bowls and chopsticks, offering thanks and promises to return.

"I'll walk them out," Maya said, pulling on a cardigan.