For three years.
She walked deeper. The air tasted of wet plaster and old secrets.
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. Kaori Saejima -2021-
Kaori's breath caught. Her left hand twitched inside the glove, a moth against a windowpane.
Behind the table stood a figure in a long coat, face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat. The figure did not move as Kaori approached. The only sound was the rain against the cracked window high above. For three years
The apartment was silent save for the arrhythmic drip from a leak in the corner, where a red plastic basin collected rainwater. On the low table in front of her, beside the empty chessboard, lay a single white envelope. It had arrived that morning, slipped under the door by the landlady, who never looked Kaori in the eye.
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. The rain fell in vertical sheets over the
"You came," the figure said. The voice was neither male nor female. It was old and young at once. Tired.