The rain fell in vertical sheets over the port city of Nagasaki, turning the cobblestone slopes into mirrors of blurred neon. In a cramped, fourth-floor walk-up that smelled of old paper and dried herbs, Kaori Saejima sat cross-legged on a tatami mat, her back to the wall, her eyes fixed on a chessboard that held no pieces.
The ghost countered.
Kaori's breath caught. Her left hand twitched inside the glove, a moth against a windowpane. Kaori Saejima -2021-
She moved a silver general in her head. 27. Silver to 4c. The rain fell in vertical sheets over the
And somewhere deep in her mind, on the immaculate 81 squares she had built to survive the silence, the silver general she had moved in her apartment that morning began to glow with a cold, impossible light. Kaori's breath caught