Gone Playing
I heard this story from a girl who worked night shifts at an internet café in Shinsaibashi, you know, the one on the fourth floor of the shopping arcade, across from the northern subway exit. She told me about it on the morning she quit, in a shabby ramen shop in the Korean district.
It happened during last summer's heat wave. One of the regulars was a former traditional games teacher, in his fifties, carrying himself well despite his hardships. His school had gone under during , and since then, he'd been living in internet cafés, giving online lessons to make ends meet—a discreet man, always impeccably dressed despite his single booth living situation.
That night, around , a woman came in—tall, elegant, wearing a midnight blue kimono. Not the usual type you'd see there. Since the booths near the entrance were occupied by rather noisy gamers, the girl seated her in the quiet zone, next to the professor.
Come morning,
when the day shift arrived,
they found the professor slumped over his keyboard,
his face strangely peaceful.
His hand,
still resting on the mouse,
had the rigidity of marble.
His screen displayed a mid-game of ōgi.
In the chat window,
the last message—おやすみ～
—had
been left by someone named komayo at 4:17 AM.
According to the entry log,
this username corresponded to the woman's name,
駒妖,
who had already left.
The professor had lost on time.