She had not received a letter in seven years. Not since the hospital bills started arriving in her dead mother's name. She picked it up with her right hand, turning it over. The seal was a crimson wax droplet stamped with a character she did not recognize: 雨 —rain.
As she stepped into the hallway, the light bulb above her door flickered and died.
The Caretaker. She had invented that name. She had never spoken it aloud. Not to her therapists, not to the one ex-boyfriend who stayed long enough to learn her tics, not to the mirror on the nights she wept without sound. Kaori Saejima -2021-
She moved a silver general in her head. 27. Silver to 4c.
She pulled on her coat. It was too large—her mother's, from a decade ago, the wool frayed at the cuffs. She did not own an umbrella. She did not own a phone that worked. She had not received a letter in seven years
Kaori Saejima.
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. The seal was a crimson wax droplet stamped
For three years.