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.
—The Caretaker
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-