While emptying the house where my grandfather had spent his final, twilight years, that house that still seemed suspended in a held breath, as if its rooms were waiting for one last command, I never imagined I would discover, wedged between two warped planks of the old veranda, a thin, tray-length box meant for mysterious ritual offerings. It was made of dark, noble wood, smoothed by hands that knew the patience of artisans and the stubbornness of monks; and when I opened it, it yielded with a slow creak, as if it had been waiting for this moment for years.
Inside, wrapped in ochre-colored cloth, soft as ancient dust, lay a manuscript. On the cover, carved with a deliberate blade, a single word:
THE GAME
My grandfather’s handwriting, the very same I remembered from his letters, proud, slanted, with the air of an officer giving orders to the page, filled the pages like a river pressing against its banks, written perhaps during a night of feverish lucidity or at the dawn of dangerous honesty. And so I began to read.
“To the traveler who carries my blood, you who lay your eyes upon these lines: know that within them lies the account of my games, of the orbits and enchantments into which I was drawn, by choice or by the whim of fate. Do not read further unless you are prepared to look behind the veils of the world.“
And so I continued, almost without realizing it, as if the words exerted the same current on me that they described.
“The Game, my boy, is neither a pastime nor a strategy: it is a current. Some call it instinct, others vanity, others still, destiny. I simply call it the Game. Among friends, we sometimes called it “the butterfly game”, because those who enter it do not walk, they flutter.“
Grandpa went on with a solemnity that seemed to stretch the air: “In my time, I saw men believe they could dominate it, only to discover they had been nothing but shining pawns. I saw others, rarer still, dance within it as if the world echoed them. And I saw splendid, unfathomable creatures who measured every player with a glance: not out of malice, but because this is how the Game breathed. The Game has only three rules.“
Here the handwriting grew shakier, as if the memory itself were a wind shaking the narrator’s hand.
“Every player always seeks the game that seems most interesting and suited to their abilities among those in play. It is an ancient law, as old as the constellations: no one plays a game they do not perceive as valuable, and no game can be valuable unless the player playing it is perceived as skilled. The second rule is that the value of a player is not what they proclaim, but rather what others believe that others believe. It is a reflection of reflections, mirrors looking at each other.“
In the margin, like a whisper cast from a sudden moment of clarity, appeared a small note: “Walk with the same indifference before the rose and the rock, and those who observe you will believe you possess finer gardens.” Who knows what he truly meant by that note, perhaps a warning, perhaps an art.
“The third rule is that the Game forgives no revelations. When a player shows how much winning matters to them, the Game stops believing in them.“
Turning the page, a crumpled sheet, slipped in like a message tucked at the last moment into a bottle thrown to sea, caught my attention. It contained an addition: “I said there were three rules: I lied. There is, in fact, a fourth, but few players are skilled enough to notice. Many believe that once their place at the Table is established, the game ends. Foolish! It is precisely at that moment that the arduous trials begin. The other players, whether splendid butterflies or cunning hawks it matters not, will return to brush past you, prod you, test the limits of your calm. They want to know if your light is real or merely reflected.“
Next to it, a note written in another color, as if added in a darker or perhaps more honest hour, read: “Then you have won, but are you still able to win? Have you stopped playing because you no longer care, or because you no longer can?“
Confused by all of this, I continued leafing through the yellowed pages. Too many names, too many games, too many stories that resonated with distant echoes of my childhood, of the tales my grandfather told us by the fireplace, when shadows danced on the walls like omens. Some of the games stood out like flashes, illuminated by their own light. Among these, one immediately caught my attention, which he titled “The Terrace Game”.
“I remember a summer evening, on a terrace suspended above the sea like an altar. The air was sweet, tinged with salt and barely whispered promises. Among those present was an opponent whose step seemed to mark the music of the wind itself, a presence so measured that it made every movement of those around him seem improvised. Many respected him, and many wanted to challenge him, but all failed, baring the teeth of the hunger. I did nothing. I knew he wanted to play: no one sits at the Table for any other reason. And I knew, with a certainty that admits no hesitation, that he wanted to play with me. I spoke with an old sailor about the route of the stars and the fury of hurricanes, I laughed, oh, how I laughed!, with the waiter over a joke I no longer even remember. I looked at the sea, admired with my eyes eager for wonder, too busy contemplating that infinity to leave space for the other player waiting. It was then that, as if drawn by an invisible ripple, he sat beside me. “Am I boring you?”, I asked. “If I were bored, I would not have come”, he replied.“
In the margin, in my grandfather’s unmistakable handwriting, a small admonition: “Do not rush toward the light; walk as if you had one of your own.“
The next page was more worn than the others, market by time and by my grandfather’s repeated glances. At the top, a single thought: “Freedom is the true currency of the Game“. Then the story continued, and the words seemed almost to vibrate with an invisible tension.
“Among all the games of my past, there is one that taught me the quietest secret of the Game: the power to rise from the Table without dragging the chair. It was an autumn evening, in one of those cities whose cobbled streets wind like veins beneath the skin of the night. Lanterns cast red shadows on the arches of doorways; the air smelled of damp leaves and unspoken words. My opponent was an elegant, brilliant presence, one of those who seem to walk inside a halo of light. I called them that then: opponents, not people. That is how I saw the world: a great Table, infinite pieces, and among them, me.“
They walked along a closed street lined with ancient stone buildings. The opponent spoke in a clear voice, but in his words, my grandfather began to hear something: a subtle curve, a slight misalignment, an orchestra that had begun to play with an untuned instrument.
“It was not her fault“, he noted, “It was the game. Sometimes the game changes tone, just as a violin loses a string during a solo.“
The opponent began to play by asking increasingly sharp questions, like blades wrapped in silk. They were not true requests, they were measurements. They measured him, his convictions, and above all his willingness to deny a fragment of his nature in order to continue the dance.
“It was not a test“, he wrote, “it was a bell.“
They arrived at a small elevated terrace, where the city below spread out like an inverted constellation. The opponent stopped, turned, and looked at my grandfather with a light in his eyes that sought a precise step: a step backward built upon a step against oneself. A subtle, almost invisible moment. A moment that the Game values more than a thousand ostentatious moves. A moment many, in the Game, ignore until they are lost.
“I understood that another move would shine in the eyes of the Game. I understood that consenting, yielding, adapting like water in a vessel not my own would make me appear more flexible, more accommodating, perhaps more victorious in the eyes of the Game. But it was not my vessel. It was not my way. And above all, these were not my values.“
A long silence followed, a silence heavier than a thousand moves. Then my grandfather did what almost no one dares when the Table is still warm and the game seems to promise future glories: he turned toward the railing, watched the city spread beneath him, and then calmly returned to the opponent. In a firm, gentle voice, he simply said: “Beautiful game, but it is not mine.“
The opponent remained still, for a moment only, like a wax figure lit by the first ray of sunlight. Then she smiled. Not a wounded smile. Not a triumphant smile. But a surprised, satisfied smile. My grandfather had won.
“Do you not care to know how it would have gone?“, asked the opponent.
“The best games,” my grandfather replied, “are those I can play without losing myself.“
And without haste, without theatrics, without turning abruptly or apologizing, he did the most powerful thing a player can do: he walked away. He passed through a half-open door, slipped down a staircase immersed in shadows, and closed it behind him with the grace of someone who knows they break nothing but preserve themselves.
In the margin, one last note: “The Game follows those who know how to leave, because those who know how to leave are not bound to the Table, and that is exactly what makes them true players.“
Turning the page, a small slip of paper fell into my hands. The handwriting, nervous, almost feverish, seemed to tremble under the pressure of an emotion held for decades: “That night I won nothing, but at least I did not lose myself.“
I remained still, staring at those words. They were neither an admission of defeat nor a celebration of victory: they were the quiet truth of the Game. My grandfather did not write to teach strategies, but to convey the sensation of what it truly means to play, without losing one’s center, one’s freedom. And as I gazed at that final sentence, the meaning of all the rules, the games, the glances, and the silences came together like a hidden mosaic: every gesture, every intention, every step forward or back carried weight in the Game, yet no move was ever entirely binding.
At the end of the manuscript, with the solemnity of one who knows that knowledge is a flowing river, not a tree reaching for the sky, my grandfather concluded:
“If you have found this manuscript, it is because the Game will come to you as well.
Do not try to dominate it, do not resist it;
Observe, breathe, walk calmly.
Do not attract butterflies, let them discover you while you watch the sky.
Those who play too much find they are merely a piece;
Those who play well find the Game is everywhere;
And those who stop playing… often win without realizing it.“
I closed the manuscript, and for a moment the house seemed suspended, holding its breath with me. All the past, all the games, all my grandpa’s silences and secrets now hovered around me like luminous fairies, invisible but present, like the wind whistling through the planks of the old veranda. The small slip of paper, with its nervous truth, still trembled in my memory: “That night I won nothing, but at least I did not lose myself.“
It was then that I understood: the Game was not outside me, on some terrace, in some gaze, or in a game yet to be played. The Game was within, silent and attentive, and invisible current that observes, measures, challenges, and rewards only those who have the courage to move according to their own rules. Every step, every glance, every silence carried weight, yet no move was ever final. The Game waited, ready to call me, ready to reveal itself, ready to play, should I ever have the courage to truly enjoy it.
This article was originally written in Italian. If you want to read the original: Il Gioco.