The Antique Shop

A week had passed since that night. In the interval, Alexei learned the movement of pieces and their names.

Alexei couldn't stop thinking about the board—the way the pieces had glowed in his dream, the man's voice, the sacrifice. He didn't fully understand it, but something deep inside had shifted. So when his father asked if he wanted to pick out a chessboard of his own, Alexei nodded eagerly.

The plan was simple: visit a local shop, buy a basic set, and begin learning the game properly.

But fate had other plans.

They were walking through one of the older streets in town when Alexei slowed, eyes caught by something off the path—a dimly lit, crooked little storefront wedged between two modern buildings. The paint on the sign was peeling, and the windows were clouded with dust. Faded letters above the door read: "Timeless Relics

He tugged his father's sleeve.

"Dad... can we go in there?"

His father raised an eyebrow. "That place looks like it's been closed for years."

But Alexei was already moving.

They stepped inside, and at once, the scent of old wood and timeworn leather filled the air. The room was dim and silent, save for the creaking floorboards under their feet. Every surface was cluttered with forgotten objects—rusted clocks, tarnished mirrors, cracked porcelain, and strange trinkets that looked like they belonged to another century.

And then Alexei saw it.

In the far corner of the room, resting on a velvet-draped pedestal, sat a chessboard. But not just any board—this one was carved from dark mahogany, the squares slightly worn but gleaming with a strange warmth. The pieces were unlike any he'd seen: tall, slender, almost regal in posture. They looked hand-carved, each one unique, as though telling its own story.

Alexei took a step forward, mesmerized.

He raised a finger, pointing toward it without taking his eyes off the board.

"Dad… that one. I want that one."

His father followed his gaze, then approached the counter where a pale, elderly man stood motionless, as if he'd been waiting.

"How much for the chessboard?" his father asked, reaching for his wallet.

The shopkeeper didn't answer at first. His eyes were fixed on Alexei—sharp, knowing eyes that seemed to peer through the boy rather than at him.

Finally, in a voice like dry paper, the man said,

"I wouldn't take money for that."

Alexei's father frowned.

"You won't sell it?"

The old man shook his head slowly, then turned back to Alexei.

"I see fire in his eyes," he murmured. "Hunger for victory… hatred for defeat. He doesn't just want to play—he needs to understand. I've seen that look before."

He walked around the counter, footsteps whispering against the old floorboards. He stopped beside the board and laid a trembling hand on its edge.

"There's something in him. The kind of spirit you can't teach. Willing to sacrifice everything for the ultimate truth of the game."

The shopkeeper's voice dropped lower, almost reverent now.

"Just like the legend himself… Mikhail Tal."

The room fell silent.

Alexei didn't speak. Neither did his father. The air felt heavy, like the shop had slipped out of time altogether.

The old man lifted the board and gently placed it into Alexei's arms.

"It already belongs to him," he said. "It was only waiting."