Someone had been listening to the game inside her head.
Inside, a single sheet of heavy, cream-colored paper. The message was brief:
Kaori Saejima.
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 .
She moved a silver general in her head. 27. Silver to 4c. Kaori Saejima -2021-
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.
She pulled out the chair.
Now, she played blindfolded.
She walked deeper. The air tasted of wet plaster and old secrets. Someone had been listening to the game inside her head
"Sit, Kaori Saejima. Let's finish the game you started in 2014."