Kaori Saejima — -2021-

She had not received a letter in seven years. Not since the hospital bills started arriving in her dead mother's name. She picked it up with her right hand, turning it over. The seal was a crimson wax droplet stamped with a character she did not recognize: 雨 —rain.

The old prefectural library stood at the edge of the abandoned tram line, a granite mausoleum of a building with gargoyles that had eroded into featureless blobs. The chains on the gate had been cut. Not recently—the rust on the fresh break was already orange—but cut nonetheless. The gate swung inward with a sigh.

"Sit, Kaori Saejima. Let's finish the game you started in 2014."

Inside, a single sheet of heavy, cream-colored paper. The message was brief: Kaori Saejima -2021-

Outside, a delivery scooter splashed through a puddle. The sound was a lance through her concentration. Kaori exhaled slowly, reset her internal clock, and opened her eyes.

Someone had been listening to the game inside her head.

—The Caretaker

She moved a silver general in her head. 27. Silver to 4c.

She adjusted her posture. Her left hand rested uselessly in her lap, wrapped in a compression glove. Her right hand hovered over an imaginary board. Visitors who didn't know better assumed she was praying.

"You're not real," Kaori said. Her voice was a rasp she barely recognized. "I made you up." She had not received a letter in seven years

The Eighth Square is empty. The pawn you abandoned in 2014 still waits. Come to the old prefectural library before the autumn equinox. Bring nothing but your memory.

Now, she played blindfolded.

The envelope had no return address. Just her name in calligraphy so precise it looked printed. The seal was a crimson wax droplet stamped

She did not sit. Not immediately. She stood there, dripping rainwater onto the marble floor, her useless left hand hanging, her right hand trembling at her side. The board waited. The ghost waited.

The board in her mind was perfect. Immaculate. The 81 squares stretched out like a city grid, each koma —each piece—a living soldier with a name and a grudge. She was playing against a ghost. Not a real one. A composite of every master she had ever studied: a phantom grandmaster she called The Caretaker .