It was a morning when dark clouds loomed heavy in the sky. It was my routine to check the mailbox as soon as I woke up. Outside, a thick blanket of clouds threatened rain at any moment. That day, I had plans to go to a shogi club to play. Many of the regulars there were formidable players; most held “dan” ranks, while I was still a “kyu” level amateur. In shogi, when there is a significant gap in skill, the stronger player typically accepts a handicap called “koma-ochi,” where they remove certain pieces from the board. People might imagine shogi club regulars to be cranky or intimidating, but at the places I frequented, everyone was kind and considerate.
One day, an opponent asked me, “What rank are you?” I honestly and quietly muttered, “I’m 3rd kyu.” He then turned to the club manager—the person who runs the hall—and asked, “What rank am I today?”
“You? You’re 3rd dan today,” the manager replied. I listened to their exchange with trepidation. However, once we played, the result was one win and one loss. He had graciously allowed me the dignity of a single victory. Because of experiences like that, I found myself returning to that club from time to time.
I wonder now if those dark clouds were a premonition. That day, when I opened the mailbox as usual, there was a single black envelope inside. I was taken aback by the unfamiliar stationery. I had to get ready to leave immediately, yet I couldn’t shake a strange curiosity about the contents. I tore the envelope open. Inside the black paper, there was no letter, but a key. It was a shape I didn’t recognize. I had no idea what it was for, but I was short on time. I shoved it into my pocket and headed for the shogi club. Along the way, for some reason, a heavy melancholy washed over me.
Once I arrived and was paired for a match, something felt wrong. I couldn’t visualize my moves as well as usual. I lost three matches in a row. Taking a break, I went outside for a smoke, but my head felt strangely itchy—perhaps because of the smoke. Without thinking, I reached for the key in my pocket to scratch my head. At that moment, something impossible happened.
The key slid right through my scalp and entered my head. I let out an instinctive cry and pulled it out. Suddenly, my head felt incredibly heavy. I was overwhelmed by fear and the sheer weight of it, but the weight eventually won out. Tentatively, I pressed the key against my scalp again. As expected, it passed right through. In that instant, I felt my head become light. Steeling my resolve, I pushed the key into my head. It stopped once it reached a certain depth; the entire key didn’t go in. I see, I realized. It really is a key. I gave it a turn. There was a faint click.
In that moment, memories flooded my mind all at once. Everything from the contents of shogi books I’d read and records of professional matches to the very moment I first learned hiragana—my entire life flashed before my eyes like a kaleidoscope. Startled, I cried out and turned the key in the opposite direction. The flashing memories subsided. I pulled the key out and stared at it, my breath coming in ragged gasps. What was this key, and who had sent it to me? Was it a key to unlock the doors of memory?
I gazed at the object. With this key, I might be able to win. I stood there in silence for a long time. Finally, with a deep sigh, I pulled out the black envelope and placed the key back inside.
