Let me tell you something that happened to me… about ten years ago now. I was working for a company in Osaka’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 her.
A woman in a flawless kimono, playing alone. She was setting shōgi pieces down with a crisp snap—on a chessboard. It made no sense, yet it was mesmerizing.
Even from a few metres away one piece caught my eye, set right beside the king like a royal couple. I couldn’t read the kanji from where I sat, but I’d have sworn it said “姫”—the princess. She moved it sometimes along a bishop’s long diagonal, sometimes in the knight’s sharp L, with an elegance that was almost unsettling.
I had watched for a few minutes when she suddenly looked straight at me. Her gaze was direct, perfectly calm.
Caught staring, I was about to apologise when she motioned for me to join her. I shook my head, politely, and left the park.
Since that night I keep setting pieces on a board, trying to recreate that game that was neither quite shōgi nor quite chess.