A strange child's voice whispered into my ear,
"Please… stop. Don't kill her."
...
When I came back to my senses, I froze.
A woman stood before me.
Who was she? How did I end up here?
As I lifted my head, I noticed the number on the door—
Room 33.
The same one opposite mine.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"I… I'm your neighbor. From the room next door."
"Oh really? Are you new here?"
Perfect.
She doesn't recognize me.
I don't know why there are bruises all over her body—
but that's none of my business.
"Yes," I said quickly. "I was trying to fix the lamp, but I fell and hit my head.
If possible, could I have some bandages? Maybe a bit of water?"
"Of course, dear. I'll bring you some."
...
Several minutes passed.
"She's taking too long," I muttered.
"Ma'am, are you alright?" I called out.
"I'm coming…" her voice answered faintly from afar.
When she returned, she smiled apologetically.
"Oh dear, did I leave the door open? I'm so sorry.
Is there something I can help you with?"
Did she forget our conversation from just a moment ago?
Maybe she's suffering from dementia—
her age, the confusion in her eyes… even the calendar on the wall shows a date from two years ago.
I should probably just go back.
(The watcher returns to his room.)
I focus again on the wall, trying to recall anything about the girl, or what I'd been trying to achieve with these awful chess studies.
But one game… stands out.
The black player kept making mistakes.
And every time he did, the white player somehow brought the balance back—
as if the game was destined to end in a draw.
But the ending…
the ending was stupid.
Completely illogical.
Thinking about it now, those moves in the notebook have nothing to do with logic at all.
The notebook itself feels strange.
Pages filled with sequences that can't even be called moves—
repeating endlessly, always ending with the same line:
"I have failed."
They look more like coordinates than chess notation,
as if describing a mid-game position.
But… where are the kings?
The strangest part lies on the eighth line:
25/26.
Could it be a code?
Maybe I was counting letters in the alphabet…
That would make it the letter Y.
God, I feel sick trying to figure this out.
I start wondering about the psychiatrist's number.
If I was really his patient, then he must know something about me.
I don't have a phone anymore,
but maybe I can borrow one from someone…
...What was that sound?
Why are the police here?
Who are they looking for?
Wait—
did they come for me?