“In 100 moves I tell you I miss you”- by Wenshu Wang

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The garage smelled of hot cedar and motor oil, heavy as a held breath. You were always there first: cross-legged on concrete, setting up the chessboard before I reached the driveway. I learned to play here, cicadas buzzing, my hand on the knight’s ridged head, the same grooves chipping my tooth when I flung it too high, trying to make you laugh. We could barely understand each other—your drawn-out Southern vowels, my clipped Mandarin consonants slipping between us. This was our secret language: trading pieces, each move a small exchange. Your laughter rising through the cicadas, another sound I understood.

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