"Hard to believe you're the same beginner who barely understood the rules just half a month ago."
The middle-aged man dropped his chess piece and conceded cleanly. He wasn't concerned about the 5,000 yen he had lost; rather, he was filled with admiration and curiosity for the player on the other side of the screen.
In this encyclopedia-style game centered on chess, players from around the world could match up online. As a retired professional chess player, the man stood out in this environment filled mostly with novices and amateurs, rarely ever losing.
Half a month ago, he had been matched against a player with the username "Hotaru." At the time, the opponent was a complete novice who was easily routed by him. Normally, beginners who encountered a seasoned player like himself would feel discouraged and disappear for a while. But this opponent didn't seem to be bothered. Instead, they spent long hours in the lobby every day, continuously looking for matches.
Now, upon their second encounter, the man was stunned to discover how much "Hotaru" had improved. Although his initial carelessness contributed to his defeat, it was still a loss. And a loss was a loss. Within just two weeks, the player had reached the level of an amateur.
A little dissatisfied, the man requested a rematch. But this time, the opponent suggested a wager of 5,000 yen. For the man, that was just the price of dinner, so he readily agreed. Unfortunately, despite a glimmer of hope, he lost again in the second match.
After transferring the 5,000 yen to the provided account, the man wanted to ask about the player's age, thinking of recruiting him into the professional chess world. If "Hotaru" had truly achieved this level of skill in such a short time, then they undoubtedly had the talent and potential to go pro.
However, just a minute after the funds were transferred, the opponent's avatar grayed out—they had gone offline.
The man decided to wait patiently for "Hotaru" to log back in. Based on past activity, the player clearly loved chess and spent a significant amount of time on the platform.
If he could just confirm the player's abilities and identity, the man was confident he could use his connections to groom them into a professional.
He reviewed their matches again, marveling at the logic and creativity of Hotaru's plays.
Without a doubt, this player had the potential to chase the highest honor in international chess—
[Grandmaster]
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After Hotaru's condition improved slightly, Ryo decided to bring his sister home to recover.
It wasn't because he didn't want her to receive better care, but rather because their financial situation simply couldn't support the steep cost of continued hospitalization.
The compensation he had hoped to receive from the school was meager—barely anything, even after negotiations. In fact, if Ryo hadn't asked someone to step in, the school might've just found an excuse to expel him altogether instead of paying a single yen.
He had already used up almost all his favors and borrowed what little he could, but Hotaru's condition remained a bottomless pit of expenses.
Back when the Kitagawa family had Aki, her income could cover these costs. But now that the burden had fallen solely on Ryo, it became unbearably heavy.
He desperately searched for any job he could get. Many places turned him away due to his age and lack of education, but sometimes he managed to land temporary gigs.
He worked in a restaurant kitchen, did grunt labor in the city sewers, and returned to the café he once worked at—only to find it had gone out of business. The pink bunny sign was gone, replaced by a new arcade that reeked of cigarette smoke and the noise of rowdy youth.
Ryo got a two-day job there during the holiday rush. Seizing the opportunity, he volunteered himself like a bargain-bin product to the overwhelmed staff. The boss only agreed to hire him temporarily, assigning him to the noisiest, busiest outer area.
That section was crowded with NS and Switch players—old consoles considered outdated in this era of immersive virtual reality. Inside the arcade, those with money enjoyed a new age of entertainment, donning VR headsets to live second lives in virtual worlds.
Yet Ryo couldn't help but envy the teenagers shouting excitedly as they battled screen bosses with handheld controllers. He had never experienced anything like it.
While picking up trash or mopping the floor, he would sometimes sneak closer to watch.
A few players noticed his gaze. Some even kindly offered to let him take a turn—but he declined every time.
Ryo knew his reality too well. Gaming consoles were a luxury completely beyond his reach.
While working at a dessert shop, the owner sometimes gave leftover scraps to employees—mostly burnt toast that looked like charcoal. For a long time, that was Ryo's dinner.
Occasionally, he would get something decent—like a quarter slice of blueberry pie. He would always wrap it carefully and take it home.
"This isn't hard to make. If I ever get the chance, I'll make them myself. You can eat as many as you want then, Hotaru."
When Hotaru tried to share the small treat with him, Ryo waved it off.
"Onii-chan is amazing!"
Though she was technically in middle school, Hotaru still acted like a little child around him.
"And today, I earned an extra 5,000 yen."
Ryo proudly showed her the transaction record on his phone.
"I never thought I'd make money just by playing chess."
"You could also get rich from ring toss."
"Yeah, but the fireworks festival only comes once a year. And I didn't want to leave you alone this year."
He brushed the crumbs from her lips and tucked the blanket around her legs.
Hotaru's body was incredibly fragile. After first coming home, her legs would cramp at night from the slightest chill, waking her in excruciating pain. Though Ryo always helped massage and soothe her back to sleep, even one cramp would leave behind lingering pain for the entire night.
Compared to that, the cramps were minor. Many nights, the only comfort Ryo could offer to his pain-stricken sister was a warm embrace and quiet presence.
That was all he could give.
"Onii-chan, you look really tired lately."
Hotaru looked up at him with those still-beautiful eyes that sparkled like a delicate piece of art, even though her cheeks had become thin and sunken.
"Tired? Not quite. I'd say it's fear. When you first came home, you were so weak. Every time your breathing sped up or slowed down, I couldn't stop watching you. I was terrified I'd nod off and miss something."
"I'd regret that for the rest of my life."
He lowered his head and smiled.
"So if you can stay healthy, that would be the best gift you could give me."
"Okay. I will."
Hotaru nodded vigorously.
But things rarely go the way we wish. In fact, they often crumble into something irreversible.
The next day, Hotaru didn't feel better—she was weaker. She didn't show it, though. She saw Ryo off as usual.
Then, she tried to get out of bed alone.
Chest tight, breathing shallow—the moment her feet touched the floor, dizziness hit her hard. The world spun. The concrete floor underfoot felt like soft, rain-soaked sand.
Every two steps, she had to stop and catch her breath.
The person she had secretly contacted yesterday was already waiting outside the door. Hotaru opened it.
An elderly woman stood there, hunched over, with a camera hanging from her neck—the only item of value she carried.
She was a familiar stranger in this neighborhood—where elderly people without support or terminal patients who didn't want to burden their families often lived. This woman's unusual profession was born from their particular needs.
"You're the youngest child I've ever photographed."
The woman sighed and pulled out a backdrop painted with bright green mountains, blue skies, and cheerful clouds.
The ocean stretched beneath Hotaru's feet, shimmering like it might splash at the slightest touch.
Most people here spent their final days staring at gray ceilings. So even a fake scene like this was worth offering.
"Sit still."
With a stiff smile, the woman guided Hotaru to stand in front of the backdrop.
"Can you smile? That's it—you're such a beautiful girl."
"Look at the camera."
Something felt off. The woman adjusted the look, pulling a white sunhat from her bag and placing it gently on Hotaru's head.
"Perfect."
The flash went off, and the photo printed out shortly after.
"Keep this. If you need to use it soon, that's okay. If not, then I hope you never have to."
She always ended her sessions with these words—whether people wished for a swift end or wanted to linger a bit longer.
"Thank you."
Hotaru took the photo and watched the door close before wobbling back to bed.
She stared at the picture—staring at her own posthumous image.
For a girl of thirteen, it was heartbreakingly cruel.
Smiling faintly, wearing a sunhat, standing before a glowing sky and ocean—anyone unaware might think she was on a tropical vacation.
Hotaru slid the photo under her pillow.
Years ago, she once found a gift from Santa Claus there.
By the time Ryo returned from his afternoon job, Hotaru lay motionless under the blanket, like she was simply sleeping.
For the first time ever, Ryo's hands trembled uncontrollably. He'd never dropped a plate while working.
But now, they shook like dying leaves in the wind.
He lifted the blanket.
He touched her nose, her forehead, her closed eyes, her lips.
Then he lifted her onto his back and ran toward the hospital.
As he ran, Hotaru opened her eyes.
"...Onii-chan."
Ryo didn't want to answer. Didn't want to hear it. He ran faster, as if replying would trigger something terrible.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't talk! Please..."
He didn't want to hear her say goodbye, as if she had stayed just to abandon him today.
"Mm."
Hotaru's warm breath brushed against his ear.
Then, she fell silent. Curled on the back of the one person she trusted most.
Her breathing grew weaker, until the hands clutching Ryo's neck fell limp like shattered jade.
The emergency room bustled with doctors and nurses rushing stretchers through the halls.
But that night, something unforgettable happened.
A boy collapsed in the corner, wailing with such intensity that the whole hospital seemed to echo with his cries.
That night, there were no stars. The pale light of the moon fell like snow over the city.
And in one corner of that city, a retired chess player waited...
...but never saw that player come online again.
-------------------------------------
Ryo tapped the screen of his phone, staring at the photo placed at the center.
He didn't want to call it a memorial portrait. It was too beautiful for that.
There was a faint sound of sniffling.
[Wake up early. Interview.]
He set that schedule in the calendar.
The screen dimmed and went dark.
And with that final glimmer of light, Ryo's silhouette was completely swallowed by the blackness of night.
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