The Rain Game
It was one of those afternoons that feel like a leftover thought—school was done, the sky hung heavy, and the city pressed on without looking up.
I wandered without aim until I saw him, sitting on the pavement at the edge of a busy street. People swerved around him like he didn’t exist. A broken plastic board between his legs, pieces already set. His eyes had seen wars.
I sat down beside him.
No words. Just a nod. Then we shook hands, and the game began—like we were born to meet here, like this.
I noticed the cup.
Two euros. A peace offering. He waved it away at first, pride stiff in his spine. But hunger doesn’t argue long.
Then the rain came—soft and hesitant at first, then harder. Everyone around us scattered for cover. Umbrellas opened like flowers. But we didn’t flinch. The street turned to glass. The board to ice. The pieces slipped in our fingers, but the game went on.
We were soaked. Sitting in it. Grounded. Equal.
I don’t know how long we played.
But eventually, with sleeves heavy and steam rising off the asphalt, I won. A quiet checkmate. His eyes narrowed. Lips moved—harsh Russian syllables, half curse, half laugh.
I stood up. Just like that.
No gloating. No goodbye. Just the sound of wet shoes on concrete as I disappeared back into the crowd, leaving behind the rain, the board, and the man who almost beat me.
