Saejima -2021- - Kaori

Kaori was thirty-four. Once, she had been a child prodigy of the shogi circuit—the "Lioness of Kyushu," they called her after she defeated a reigning grandmaster at sixteen. But that was before the accident. Before the tremor in her left hand made it impossible to place a piece without knocking over three others. Before her mother’s funeral, which she watched through a hospital window, her jaw wired shut after a seizure sent her down a flight of concrete stairs.

Outside, the rain fell on Nagasaki like a held breath finally released.

Kaori stepped through. The rain immediately soaked through her cardigan, but she did not shiver. Her mind was already arranging the pieces on the board of the library's foyer: marble floor (81 squares if you counted the tiles), a collapsed information desk (rook, immobilized), a staircase spiraling upward (lance, threatening). Kaori Saejima -2021-

But the pawn she abandoned in 2014—that was real, too. A physical shogi piece. A single gold general she had dropped on the floor of the Nagasaki Youth Shogi Championship, her hand seizing mid-move, the piece rolling under a heater. She had been too humiliated to retrieve it. Too young to know that leaving a piece behind was a kind of curse.

"You came," the figure said. The voice was neither male nor female. It was old and young at once. Tired. Kaori was thirty-four

Kaori Saejima.

She folded the letter carefully, slid it back into the envelope, and tucked it into the folds of her gray cardigan. Then she rose, unsteady on legs that had forgotten stairs, and crossed to the window. Before the tremor in her left hand made

Someone had been listening to the game inside her head.