The Game That Was Waiting for Me
The President consults his list and turns to a man sitting near the entrance. Here tonight for the first time, he looks up every time someone comes in.
Cyril-san, we’re listening.
He straightens up before his candle and scans the faces in the room, one by one. His gaze comes back to the flame.
I first saw it about ten years ago. Long before I knew the name. I was working for a company in Ōsaka’s Hommachi district.
It was one of those July evenings—warm, easily 30 °C. When the clock hit 7 p.m., I packed up, nodded to my coworkers, and left.
By 7:05 p.m. I was outside. The sky was still perfectly blue.
I grabbed a cold beer from the corner konbini and walked to Utsubo Park.
The place was busy. Kids splashed in the water to cool off. I settled on the grass, between the fountain and the rose beds, facing the setting sun.
That’s when I saw it.
A game, played alone by a woman in a flawless kimono. She was setting shōgi pieces down with a crisp snap—on a chessboard. At first glance, it made no sense.
I had watched for a few minutes when she suddenly looked straight at me. Her gaze was direct, perfectly calm.
I left the park, politely.
Since that night, I’ve been playing her game too, on my own.