I let myself sink into the memory. Pulled up details I hadn't thought about in years. The smell of my grandmother's kitchen—black bread and borscht and strong tea. The way the apartment had been warm despite the brutal cold outside. The sound of men's voices rumbling through walls that were supposed to be soundproofed.
"I was supposed to be in bed," I said. "But I'd heard voices and wanted to know what the men were discussing. Important things were always discussed after children were supposed to be asleep. So I snuck downstairs, quiet as I could, and hid behind the curtains in the library."
Sophie's eyes were fixed on me now. Less terrified. More present. I kept going.
"Grandfather found me almost immediately. I thought I was being clever, but he knew every creaking floorboard in that apartment. He pulled the curtain back and there I was, seven years old in my pajamas, trying to be invisible." I smiled at the memory. "Instead of sending me back to bed, he dismissed the other men. Told them we'd continue the discussion tomorrow. Then he pulled out this chess set from the cabinet behind his desk."
Her hands had loosened slightly on the blanket. The white-knuckle grip was easing.
"The set was ancient," I said. "Ivory and ebony, hand-carved, probably pre-Revolution. The kind of thing that belonged in a museum. Each piece was a work of art—the knights were horses with flowing manes, the bishops wore traditional Orthodox vestments, the kings and queens had faces you could actually recognize as human. My grandfather said it had been his grandfather's. Passed down through four generations of Besharovs."
I leaned forward slightly, elbows on my knees, making myself smaller. Less threatening. Just a man telling a story to someone who needed distraction from her own thoughts.
"He set up the pieces on the board and said, 'Kolya, if you're going to sneak around, you might as well learn something useful.'"
Sophie's breathing was deeper now. Still conscious but settling. The rhythm of my voice was working.
"He taught me the names first," I said. "The pieces. The king—korol'—most important but also most vulnerable. Can only move one square at a time. Has to be protected by every other piece on the board because if he falls, the game is over. The queen—ferz'—most powerful, most dangerous. Can move in any direction, asmany squares as she wants. A good queen can control the entire board."
I watched Sophie's eyelids grow heavier. Good. Keep talking. Keep her mind occupied with something that wasn't terror.
"The bishops move diagonally," I continued. "The knights move in an L-shape—two squares in one direction, one square perpendicular. The rooks move in straight lines. And the pawns—the pawns can only move forward, one square at a time, unless they're making their first move. Then they can move two squares."
The technical details should have been boring. Instead they seemed to soothe her. She probably knew it all already. But maybe that’s what made it soothing. It was knowable. We were sharing rules that made sense in a world that didn't.
"He taught me how the pieces moved, one by one, until I could recite them back to him. Then he taught me the first rule of chess." I paused. Let the silence stretch just long enough to hold weight. "Control the center, control the game."
Sophie's eyes were half-closed now. Her breathing had found that deeper rhythm that came just before sleep. But I kept talking. Couldn't stop yet. Not when she was finally, finally relaxing.
"We played until dawn," I said softly. "Five games. Maybe six. I lost every single one. Didn't even come close to winning. I'd think I had a strategy, think I'd found an opening, and then he'd move a piece I'd forgotten about and suddenly my king was in check. Game over. Set it up again."
I remembered the frustration. The way I'd wanted to cry but couldn't because seven-year-old boys in bratva families didn't cry. The way my grandfather had watched me struggle with that emotion, had seen it written on my face.
"But Grandfather never got impatient," I continued. "Never told me I was too young or too stupid. Never made me feel likelosing was shameful. He just kept teaching. Kept showing me the patterns. Kept explaining why certain moves worked and others didn't."
Sophie's eyes closed completely. Her face smoothed. The tension that had been carved into her features since I'd entered the room was finally, finally easing.
"He said chess was like life in our world," I said, my voice dropping even quieter. "Every piece has a role. Every move has consequences. You have to think three steps ahead, five steps, ten steps. You have to anticipate what your opponent will do before they do it. And you have to protect your king—protect what matters most—even if it means sacrificing everything else."
Her breathing had deepened into the unmistakable rhythm of sleep. Real sleep, not the thrashing nightmare state I'd found her in. Her hands had finally released the death grip on the blanket. One had slipped out, resting on the mattress beside her, palm up, fingers slightly curled.
I should stop talking. She was asleep. She didn't need me anymore.
But I kept going anyway. Kept my voice low and soothing, let it wash over her like a lullaby.
"When the sun came up, we could hear my grandmother in the kitchen. She came into the library and saw us there—me exhausted and frustrated, him calm and patient as ever—and she just smiled. Brought us tea and bread with butter. Kissed my grandfather's head and told him not to keep me up too late next time."
I watched Sophie's chest rise and fall. Steady. Even. Safe.
"I went to bed and slept for twelve hours," I murmured. "And when I woke up, the chess set was in my room. My grandfather had given it to me. Said I'd earned it by lasting the whole night without quitting. Said the mark of a good strategist wasn'twinning—it was being willing to lose a hundred times to learn the patterns."
The story was finished. Sophie was deeply asleep now, her face peaceful in the dim light from the window. The city glow filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows across her features.
I stood slowly. Careful not to make the floorboards creak. Moved to the door on silent feet.
Stopped with my hand on the handle. Looked back.
She looked so small in that big bed. Small and young and vulnerable in a way that made my chest ache. The blanket had slipped down to her waist. Her hair had come partially loose from its ponytail, honey-colored strands falling across the pillow.
