Twinlight

Autumn, 2024. A fine drizzle drifted from the steel-grey sky, misting the city streets below. The season of fall was upon them. Pedestrians caught without umbrellas hurried past, hands shielding their heads. Within the narrow confines of Havenbrook Lane, a teenager of about seventeen sat facing an elderly man beneath the awning of Fortune's Pantry. Outside the awning, the world was cloaked in gloom, the pavement darkened by rain. Only the patch beneath the awning remained dry, a tiny sanctuary in the washed-out world. The boy possessed clean features and clear eyes. He wore simple sweatshirt set. Before them lay a worn wooden chessboard. Overhead, a faded red sign proclaimed: 'Fortune's Pantry'. "Checkmate," declared the youth, Elian Thorne, rising to his feet. He left the sparsely-haired old man, Albert, staring blankly at the board. "I could still..." Albert protested, unwilling to concede. "It's only the thirteenth move..." Elian glanced at him calmly. "Resistance is futile." The board radiated lethal intent, the moment the hidden dagger finally gleams in the light. Albert flung the piece he'd been clutching onto the board. Resignation. Elian walked past him into the store, unconcerned by his presence. He opened the counter, reached into the small basket of change beneath it, pulled out three dollars, and pocketed them. Albert watched him, grumbling. "Three dollars a day! Every day! I just won three dollars off Old Larry and Old Dave this morning, and now it's all yours! That fortune teller swore I'd make eighty. I'm only fifty! If I lose three dollars to you every day for the next thirty years, how much will I end up pouring down the drain?" "But I teach you chess," Elian replied evenly, sitting back down beside the board, "so you can go win your pride back from them. All things considered, you're breaking even." Albert muttered, "But what you've been drilling me on these last two days is useless." Elian met his gaze. "Don't be so hard on yourself." Albert: "???" Irritably, Albert reset the pieces. "Alright, alright, let's review. Show me where I went wrong." At that moment, Elian lowered his head. The time that had just passed replayed in his mind with startling clarity, like retrieving footage from a time-stamped archive. The King's Gambit opening; the pawns charging towards the center; it all echoed back in perfect detail. But not just that. The middle-aged man who had walked past them earlier, carrying four freshly bought flatbreads in a transparent plastic bag. Steam from the warm bread had fogged the bag with a layer of white mist, the scent briefly cutting through the damp air. The little girl in the white dress passing under an umbrella, the leather of her small shoes adorned with two pretty butterflies that seemed to dance with each step. The swaying raindrops falling into the lane from the grey expanse above, each one a tiny, crystal world. At the far end of the alley, the Route 103 bus flashed past the narrow entrance. A woman in a beige trench coat, umbrella raised, had been running towards the bus stop, her heels clicking a frantic rhythm. The sound of footsteps, the gurgle of rainwater draining into the storm drain beside the road – all these noises somehow deepened the profound quiet settling over Elian. None of this had he forgotten. This strange, innate ability to recall – Elian's natural gift. It was as if he could pluck a specific moment from the river of time and replay it frame by frame. Elian picked up a chess piece. Albert focused intently on the board, leaning forward. This post-game review was part of their unspoken agreement: Elian taught the moves, and Albert paid for the lesson with his daily three dollars. The scene held an uncanny quality. The youth lacked the deference expected towards an elder; instead, he carried himself with the quiet authority of a seasoned instructor. "White: e4. Black: e5. White: Nf3..." Elian moved the pieces step by step, reconstructing the game with precise movements. Albert didn't blink. The opening felt standard; he couldn't grasp how, by the sixth move, even *after* taking Elian's knight, he'd suddenly found his position crumbling. "The essence of the King's Gambit," Elian said quietly, tapping the sacrificed knight's square, "lies right here. On the sixth move. It cracks their defense wide open. I watched your game against Larry in Kingswood Park the day before yesterday. Using this King's Gambit variation against his predictable Italian Opening was strategically sound." Albert opposite him sank into deep contemplation, brow furrowed. After a moment, he ventured softly, a flicker of hope in his voice, "I can really beat him with it?" "Master the King's Gambit lines I'm showing you within a week," Elian stated matter-of-factly, "and you'll get your pride back. After all..." He paused, a hint of dry assessment in his tone. "...he's not exactly Magnus Carlsen himself." A tentative grin spread across Albert's face. But then he leaned forward abruptly, eyes narrowing. "If a week can beat Larry, how long 'til I can wipe the board with *you*?" Beneath the awning, Elian appeared to give this serious thought, his gaze drifting momentarily to the damp bricks. "The fortune teller said you’d live to eighty? ...Then it's impossible." His voice held no malice, just simple fact. Albert's expression froze, then contorted in mock outrage. "If you talked less, I might make it to eighty-one..." He shook his head, changing tack. "Hey, shouldn't you be in class right now? Why are you haunting my store so early?" Elian thought for a moment before answering, his eyes drifting past Albert to the rain-slicked alley entrance. "I'm waiting for someone." "Waiting?" Albert was genuinely taken aback. "Who for?" Elian stood up and looked out into the alley, his gaze drifting through the thinning curtain of rain. He offered no further explanation. Albert pressed on, curiosity piqued. "You're sharp as a tack at this, kid. Why not play in tournaments? Didn't you mention needing cash? Championship pots pay." The young Elian shook his head, a shadow of something unreadable passing over his features. "I've just memorized a staggering number of games. I can hold my own against the park regulars, but a real master would see through me in ten moves. My path... isn't carved on this board. Chess is just... a temporary distraction." "Memorized everything..." Albert marveled, genuine awe in his voice. "Photographic memory? Always thought folks who claimed that were spinning yarns." The rain slowed, then stopped entirely. At that precise moment, Albert noticed Elian stiffen, his posture turning rigid. Following the boy's gaze, Albert saw a couple walking into the far end of the lane, holding hands with a small boy who skipped between them. The woman, elegant despite the grey day, wore a tailored trench coat and carried a cake box tied with a beautiful purple ribbon. The muted world couldn't dampen the air of celebration surrounding the trio, their laughter echoing down the narrow lane. Without a word, Elian turned and strode deeper into the alley, his retreat swift and decisive. Albert sat beneath the awning of Fortune's Pantry, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he watched the boy go. The woman spotted Elian's retreating back. She called out his name, her voice carrying a mix of surprise and something else – perhaps concern, perhaps guilt. Elian didn't turn. He vanished around a bend into the depths of the alley. The walls flanking the lane were old, history etched into their surfaces. Patches of white paint had peeled away, revealing the mottled red brick beneath, like faded scars. The person Elian had waited for had come. But the moment they arrived, he no longer wanted to wait.