The Algorithm of Spring

115

The Alan Richards painting dominated the eastern wall of the Seoul Museum of Modern Art's main gallery, just as it had before its loan to Beijing. Maya stood before it, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, letting the familiar chaos of colours wash over her. The same deep blue veins running beneath wild red slashes, the same haunting shadow in the lower left corner. It hadn't changed.

Yet, she saw it differently now.

A young couple paused nearby, whispering to each other as they examined the canvas. Their reflections ghosted across the protective glass. The woman tilted her head, murmuring something that made the man nod. Then, as if satisfied, they moved on.

Maya checked her watch. Twenty minutes before she needed to leave. Twenty minutes alone with the work that had once defined her understanding of artistic rebellion—before she had learned the truth about its creator. Strange how knowledge transformed perception, how it reshaped meaning without altering a single brushstroke.

"It's quite something, isn't it?"

Maya turned slightly. A gallery attendant stood beside her, glasses perched on the tip of her nose.

"The way he captures chaos while maintaining perfect control," the woman continued, studying the painting with evident admiration. "It feels spontaneous, but nothing here is accidental."

"No," Maya agreed, "nothing he does is accidental."

The attendant glanced at her then, a flicker of recognition in her eyes. "You're Maya Kim."

Maya said nothing.

"I followed your installation." The woman lowered her voice. "The one that exposed HarmoniQ's manipulation. Brave work. The way you used light to make invisible systems visible..." She exhaled, shaking her head in appreciation. "That's what art should do."

Maya looked back at the painting. The colours had lost their fire.

"I thought so too," she said.

The attendant opened her mouth as if to say more, but a colleague called her away. With a brief nod, she disappeared, leaving Maya alone with the Richards piece.

She studied it one last time—not with awe, not with anger, but with a quiet confidence in her own judgment, something she realised she hadn't felt in years.

Then, settled, she turned and walked away.

                                                                                       ***

Outside, autumn had fully claimed Seoul, painting the city in amber and gold. The crisp air carried the scent of roasted chestnuts and distant car exhaust. Maya crossed the museum plaza, where tourists clustered around a bronze sculpture, then raised a hand to hail a taxi.

The driver, an older man with sharp eyes, barely looked at her as he pulled into traffic. "Artist?" he asked, glancing at the paint-stained bag resting against her hip.

Maya hesitated. Once, that word had defined her. Now, it was just one piece of something larger.

"Teacher," she said.

The driver made a small noise of approval. "Good job. Teaching shapes the future."

He navigated the intersection, then added, "My son—." He cleared his throat. "Met his wife through that match app. The one that shut down. She's a teacher."

Maya tensed. "HarmoniQ?"

"That's it," the driver confirmed, his hands steady on the wheel. "The algorithm that nearly broke the city."

"It was woven into more than people realised," Maya said quietly.

"You're telling me," he scoffed. "Couldn't use my transit pass for two days. Total chaos." He shook his head, a wry look in his eye. "And yet... they're happy. Baby on the way. My grandson will exist because of an algorithm that doesn't."

A complex silence settled between them — two irreconcilable truths hanging in the air: for him, a beautiful contradiction; for her, a monster holding its breath.

Seoul flickered past—districts once carved up by HarmoniQ's algorithmic boundaries now blending back together.

Those lines had been erased months ago. And yet, sometimes Maya still felt them, like phantom limbs.

The taxi slowed as they entered the university district. She paid the fare and stepped out, adjusting her bag on her shoulder.