It was well past midnight.
The rest of the house slept soundly, but Alexei secretly went with his chess board into the floor of his father's drawing room. Only the dim torchlight dangling from the ceiling lit the space, casting soft golden rays onto the antique chessboard in front of him.
He was alone. Or so he thought.
He had just begun placing the pieces—king, queen, bishops—when the air around him shifted. A sudden gust, cold and unnatural, blew through the room, though no windows were open.
And then, without warning, a swirling shadow coiled in the corner like smoke gathering form. It spun and twisted—faster, sharper—until it snapped into the shape of a tall, cloaked figure.
Alexei gasped, his hands frozen above the board.
The figure stepped forward, emerging from the darkness like a storm given shape. His eyes gleamed beneath the hood, unreadable and intense.
"I am the one from your dream… the one who watched you on that night," the man said in a voice like distant thunder—soft but heavy with meaning.
Alexei's heart thudded in his chest. Every instinct screamed to run, but he didn't. Somehow, he wasn't entirely afraid. There was something familiar about the stranger—something he'd seen before.
"Uncle," Alexei managed, his voice trembling just slightly, "may I know who you are?"
The figure tilted his head, studying the boy. The room grew impossibly still.
"Names are for the living," he said with a half-smile. "But you may call me... an echo. I've come because you opened the door."
Alexei blinked. "What door?"
The man pointed at the chessboard.
"This one. Only a few ever see what lies beyond it."
The torchlight flickered, and for a moment, the chessboard shimmered—as if the pieces were alive, holding their breath, waiting for the next move.
The stranger's finger hovered just above the chessboard.
"There was a game," he said, "played long ago… but never finished."
Alexei stared at him, wide-eyed. "Whose game was it?"
The man smiled faintly, as if recalling a secret he'd guarded for decades.
"A game between two minds. One mortal. One… something else."
The pieces on the board trembled slightly. Alexei didn't move them—but they began to shift on their own. Slowly. One pawn. Then a knight.
A position began to take shape.
"This board remembers, Alexei," the stranger continued. "It remembers every game it has ever held. But this one—this one was special."
"Why?" Alexei whispered.
The man crouched, his dark cloak pooling like shadow around him.
"Because it was Tal's. But he never finished it. He left the board before the final move was played."
The air grew heavier. The pieces stopped moving. One black queen stood poised near the white king—threatening, waiting.
"Why me?" Alexei asked, barely able to speak.
The stranger looked him dead in the eye.
"Because you're the only one who can see the board the way he did. The way Tal did. You don't just play the game… you feel it."
He stood slowly, the torchlight catching the edge of his hood. For a moment, Alexei thought he saw another face beneath the shadows—another man with deep-set eyes and a crooked grin.
"Find the final move," the figure said. "And you'll find the truth."
Then, like mist in the morning sun, the stranger dissolved into the darkness.
Alexei sat still, heart pounding, staring down at the ancient position laid out before him.
The pieces waited.
So did the shadows.
As the swirling shadows vanished, the air in the room seemed to return to normal. The torchlight steadied. The silence returned.
But the board was different now.
Alexei leaned in. The pieces were no longer in their starting squares. They stood mid-battle—black queen near the white king, rooks stretched across the files, pawns scattered like soldiers caught in retreat. It wasn't random.
It was a position.
And it was beautiful.
Every piece radiated tension. One move could unravel everything.
At the edge of the board, something shimmered—a folded scrap of yellowed paper. It hadn't been there before.
With trembling fingers, Alexei picked it up.
The paper was brittle, ink faded—but still legible. It was a chess score. Written in flowing, old-fashioned handwriting.
1. e4 c5 2. Nf3 d6 3. d4 cxd4 4. Nxd4 Nf6 5. Nc3 a6 6. Be3 e6 7. f3 b5 8. Qd2 Nbd7 9. g4 h6 10. 0-0-0 Bb7 11. h4 b4 12. Nce2 d5 13. Nf4 dxe4 14. Nfxe6!? ...
(You could use chess analysis for this position to understand)
The notation ended there.
Alexei squinted. That last move—Nfxe6—was bold, risky. A sacrifice.
But no response was listed.
"Why would it stop there?" he whispered.
He turned the paper over.
On the back, just one line was written—in the same hand:
"He saw the move... but never lived to play it."
Alexei's eyes widened.
The game… wasn't just incomplete.
It was haunted.
He looked back at the board. His hands hovered over the pieces. He didn't know how he knew—but deep inside, something told him…
He had to finish it.
He stared at the position. His knight had just leapt into the heart of enemy territory, taking the pawn on e6 with reckless courage.
His hands trembled. Why would anyone make that move? It didn't make sense—until he looked closer.
Suddenly, he saw it. The sacrifice wasn't about material… it was about momentum. One piece for the chance to light the board on fire.
And the fire was already spreading.
Now it was Alexei's turn to find the best move in this position.
Alexei swallowed and looked at the position. He didn't know strategy. He didn't know tactics. But something about the board… called to him. His eyes were drawn to one particular piece.
The bishop.
On e3.
He stared at it.
Everything else faded.
His father's voice rang in his memory:
"To play like Tal, you can't be afraid to lose. You have to give up something… sometimes everything… to see the beauty of the board."
Alexei reached out, almost unaware of what he was doing. His hand moved slowly as if guided by a will not entirely his own.
He lifted the bishop.
Paused.
And then placed it down with a soft, deliberate click.
15. Bc4!!
The board seemed to react. The torchlight flickered violently. A gust of cold air swept through the room.
Alexei gasped.
The pieces didn't move, but the feel of the board shifted. As if something had awakened.
He didn't know what he had done.
But it felt… right.
The bishop now stared directly at the black king. Unchecked. Unseen. But deadly.
He didn't know that he had just played the best move in the position—a move that only grandmasters would dare consider.
But somewhere, far away in time and memory, a ghost of a smile curled at the lips of a magician long gone.