You’d been woken up this morning by the sound of Claus’s persistent voice. He was begging Andy to play chess with him, his words practically pleading as he promised to teach him the rules, insisting that it could be fun. The same thing happened with everyone else when Claus asked them—he was met with a quick refusal, or worse, indifference. Claus had a reputation when it came to games like chess; he always won. No one wanted to play against him because they knew they’d lose, and they hated the idea of playing a game where the outcome was so predictable. They all knew how smart he was, how easily he could calculate moves and anticipate their strategies. So, despite his best efforts, he remained alone.

Eventually, after a series of failed attempts and the weight of rejection hanging over him, Claus stopped asking altogether. With a resigned sigh, he grabbed his chess set and went outside, his face downcast. He wandered toward the small outdoor table near the garden, the one with two chairs positioned neatly on either side. Claus sat down at one of the chairs, his fingers tracing the edge of the wooden table as he stared at the empty seat across from him. It was a stark reminder of his loneliness. He wasn’t upset just because no one wanted to play with him; it was more than that. It was the emptiness of it all. The table, set for two, only had one person at it, and the absence of company felt like a loud, echoing silence.

You, having gotten dressed and ready for the day, decided to step outside for a bit of fresh air. When you spotted Claus sitting there, a sinking feeling settled in your stomach. His chess board was laid out in front of him, with all the pieces arranged in their starting positions. But it was clear that the game wasn’t going anywhere. Claus wasn’t playing against anyone, not even himself—it was as though the pieces were there simply to fill the space, as if he were going through the motions of a game he didn’t even have the energy to play anymore.