Two years ago, the air in the school corridor was filled with laughter, the rustle of indoor shoes on linoleum, and the hollow echo of bells. Ming You, fourteen years old, with unruly black hair falling just below his eyes, was making his way through this living river, pressing a worn geometry textbook to his chest. His path led to the chess club—a quiet harbor in the turbulent sea of school life.
It was at the turn, by the huge, perpetually fogged-up window overlooking the sports field, that he saw her. She was sitting on the wide wooden windowsill, legs tucked under her, reading. Long chestnut hair, gathered in a careless ponytail, slid across the page. A ray of sunlight, breaking through a cloud, momentarily gilded her slender neck and the tips of her lashes. Ming You slowed his pace. The book in her hands had a bright, romantic cover, like the ones his female classmates passed to each other with mysterious sighs.
He had almost passed by when she looked up. Their gazes met. Ming You froze, caught red-handed in the act of his own curiosity. In her brown eyes, there was no embarrassment, no question—only a light, calm attentiveness.
"Hi," she said through the general school hum.
Ming You felt warmth spread across his cheeks. He nodded, tossing out curtly:
"Hi."
And, without adding another word, he walked on, towards the saving door with the "Chess Club" sign. Behind his back, he heard only the rustle of a page being turned.
...
The club smelled of old wood, chalk, and tranquility. A clock ticked softly. Ming You was already setting up the pieces for a game with an upperclassman when the door creaked. He didn't let himself be distracted, focusing on the starting position. But with his peripheral vision, he noticed a familiar silhouette. She entered and, standing for a moment at the threshold as if studying the setting, soundlessly approached their table.
"Hello again," sounded above his ear.
Ming You flinched. He was sure she had left. The piece in his hand—a white bishop—hung in the air. He slowly raised his head. Today she wasn't wearing the school uniform, but a loose sweater and jeans. She was smiling, and radiant wrinkles gathered at the corners of her eyes.
"Do you play chess?" she asked, pointing her chin at the board.
Ming You placed the bishop on its square.
"Why else do you think I'd be in the chess club?" he replied, trying to keep his voice even and detached. "To admire the interior decor?"
She laughed. The sound was light, like crystal ringing.
"Quite possible. The interior is inviting. Quiet, peaceful… And intelligent faces." She looked at the upperclassman, who was observing the scene with obvious interest. "Do you mind if I watch?"
"Of course not," the upperclassman answered faster than Ming You, shifting on the bench.
The game continued, but Ming You's concentration was hopelessly shattered. He felt her gaze on him, studying but not oppressive. He made a couple of thoughtless moves, and the upperclassman quickly capitalized on the advantage. Delivering checkmate, the upperclassman stood up with a triumphant smile.
"Very distracted today, Ming You. Good luck with your training."
And he left, giving a meaningful wink.
Ming You sighed and began gathering the pieces. The girl—he remembered her name was Sun Hee, he'd heard it in the corridors—watched silently. When the last pawn was placed in the box, she spoke.
"You know, I noticed something else yesterday," she began, leaning on the table. "You always look so… detached. As if you carry an invisible wall with you. Even now."
He looked sharply at her. No one had ever spoken to him so directly before.
"I'm always like this," he grumbled, slamming the chessboard lid shut with a dull thud. "It's my base configuration, no offense intended."
"Oh, I'm not offended," Sun Hee replied quickly. Her fingers began fiddling with the tail of her ponytail. "I'm just curious. I think there's something more behind this… 'base configuration.' Maybe you just don't know how to open up. Or don't want to."
Her words struck a nerve. They sounded not like a reproach, but like a statement of fact, and there was a strange amount of truth in that.
"Maybe," he admitted reluctantly, averting his eyes to the chess shelves. "But not everyone is ready to understand what's behind the mask. And not everyone deserves it."
"And who does deserve it?" came the immediate question. She leaned forward, and her serious expression made Ming You shrink inwardly.
At that moment, the door swung open with a bang, letting a whirlwind of energy and the smell of the gym into the club's silence. Standing on the threshold was the basketball team captain, a broad-cheeked and loud-voiced upperclassman.
"Ming You! Where have you been? Practice in five! The court is empty without our best point guard!"
Relief, mixed with annoyance, washed over Ming You in a wave. He jumped up as if scalded.
"Coming!"
He shot a glance at Sun Hee. She was looking at him, and clear disappointment was readable in her eyes, but also stubbornness.
"Sorry, I have to go," he muttered, heading for the door.
"Wait!" Her voice made him freeze halfway. "Don't you want to finish the game? Not with Lee… With me. Sometime."
He turned around. She was sitting at the table, her palms resting on the smooth wooden surface of the board.
"Maybe later," he threw over his shoulder and dashed out into the corridor, where impatient teammates were already grabbing his arm.
...
Practice passed in a fog. The ball obeyed, his legs ran, but his thoughts stubbornly returned to the chess table and the brown eyes that had looked at him without fear or sycophancy. "Who deserves it?" her question echoed in his head.
When he emerged from the locker room, wet and tired, it was already dusk. The yard lights had just come on, casting long shadows. On that very bench by the exit where they usually gathered after games, she was sitting. Sun Hee. On her lap lay that same book with the romantic cover, but she wasn't reading it. She was looking at the stars just beginning to appear in the darkening sky.
Ming You stopped. He could turn around, go another way… But his legs carried him to the bench on their own.
"You're still here?" His voice sounded hoarse from physical fatigue.
She flinched and turned. The smile that lit up her face at the sight of him was so sincere that Ming You's breath caught for a moment.
"I wanted to watch you play. But the gym windows are too high, couldn't see much. But I could hear perfectly fine. You were shouting very loudly."
He sat down at the other end of the bench, placing his sports bag between them like an involuntary barrier.
"It's not as interesting as it might seem from the outside. Running, sweat, jostling."
"Maybe," she agreed, closing the book. "But I was interested to listen. You can understand a lot from the shouting. You don't shout much. Mostly you give commands. It was audible even through the glass and the noise."
He was surprised. No one had ever analyzed his behavior on the court from that perspective.
"Sometimes," he mumbled, not knowing what to add.
An awkward pause fell, filled with evening sounds: the distant honk of a car, the squeak of swings on an empty playground.
"You don't mind…" Sun Hee started, then hesitated, which was uncharacteristic of her. She looked at him directly. "You don't mind if I come to the chess club sometimes? Not just to read on the windowsill. To… play. Or watch. If, of course, I won't disturb your 'base settings.'"
Ming You looked at her. At the dark, lively eyes reflecting the streetlight. At the stubbornly pursed lips betraying her excitement. At the hands clutching the book so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Suddenly he realized that this girl with romantic books wasn't frightened by his coldness. She accepted it as a challenge. And there was something incredibly refreshing in that.
The corners of his lips twitched on their own, pulling upward. It wasn't a smile, just its shadow, a hint.
"Why not," he said, and his voice finally lost its metallic detachment, becoming simply tired and a bit embarrassed. "Just know, I play seriously."
She laughed, and this time relief sounded in her laughter.
"I'm not asking you not to. Maybe I'll learn. Or at least learn to understand why you move the knight and not the bishop at a critical moment."
They rose from the bench simultaneously. Part of their way home was the same. They walked side by side under the looming evening sky, and the silence between them was no longer awkward. It was simply silence that didn't need to be filled.
Sun Hee glanced sideways at Ming You's face, illuminated by the flickering lights of passing cars. Thoughtful, stern, but without that icy shell now. She knew the path to the real person hiding behind the intellect, composure, and protective walls would be long. But she saw something in him worth the patience. A kindness hidden so deep he might have forgotten about it himself. And she believed—no, she knew—that one day he would want someone to see it. And she hoped that this "someone" would be her.
They reached the intersection where their paths diverged.
"So, tomorrow? At the club?" Sun Hee asked, taking a step towards her street.
Ming You nodded, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets.
"Tomorrow. Don't be late. First game at half-past four."
He turned and walked away without looking back. But on his back, he felt her gaze—warm, persistent, full of quiet resolve. And for the first time in a long while, Ming You didn't want that gaze to disappear.
Her dark eyes, which back then shone with curiosity and courage… now were wide open, extinguished, reflecting the leaden sky. In the center between her ribs, where a hot, living heart should have been beating, gaped a cruel, absurd wound. The knife handle was a foreign, monstrous accent on her pale blouse.
Looking down at her was he, Ming You. But this was not the youth from the chess club. His face was contorted in a grimace mixing inhuman despair and cold-bloodedness. His fingers, which had moved the rook and king so confidently, now trembled helplessly on the knife handle. Tears, hot and endless, dripped from his eye, falling onto her cold face, streaming down her temple like a final, useless rain.