One Last Game

They’ve boxed up his room.

The medals, the PlayStation, the army of action figures that still stand in formation under his shelf — all of it packed, taped, and labeled for storage.

Except the chessboard.

That old wooden board with worn-down pieces, faded black squares, and one missing rook we always replaced with a button.

It's still sitting by the window. Just like he left it.

When I open the board, a note flutters out.

“One last game?”

His handwriting. Scratched and fast, like always.

The ink smudged a little. Maybe by tears. Maybe by coffee.

I pull up the chair across from it.

He always sat on the window side — sunlight hitting his shoulder. I'd sit across, staring at the same determined grin every weekend.

“You always go for the queen's gambit, don't you?” I mutter, half-laughing. “Predictable.”

I move the first pawn anyway. Just like we used to.

Like muscle memory.

The room is so quiet now.

No smart remarks. No trash talk.

No yelling when I made a sneaky move he didn’t see coming.

No complaints about how I always got white pieces.

I stare at the board, waiting for a response.

None comes.

But I move the next piece.

And the next.

Playing both sides.

It’s stupid, I know. But I keep hearing his voice in my head.

"Come on, you know better than to leave your bishop exposed."

"You hesitated. You always hesitate. That’s why you lose."

"Bet you can’t beat me without using that smug face."

I smile. For the first time in days.

And just like that, I let him win the game.

Like I used to when he was little.

He was ten the first time he beat me without help.

I remember how he jumped up, knocking over the pieces, screaming, “I beat you! Fair and square!”

He didn’t even care that we were in a quiet café.

Didn’t care people turned to stare.

He just kept smiling — that same smile I can’t erase from my mind now.

The funeral was four days ago.

Full military honors. Flag on the casket.

Taps playing in the wind, cruel and soft.

Everyone said the same thing:

"He was brave."

"He was a hero."

"He died for something bigger than himself."

I didn’t want to hear any of it.

Because none of that changes the fact that he’s gone.

And I still wake up thinking I hear him in the kitchen.

I hated the last conversation we had.

He was packing his bag — again — for another deployment.

I told him I was proud. That he was doing the right thing.

But I also told him not to go.

Begged him.

He smiled, kissed my forehead, and said,

“You taught me to finish what I start.”

Those were his last words to me.

I wonder now if I taught him too much about bravery.

And not enough about staying.

Outside, the street is silent.

The house feels heavier than ever.

I stare at the chessboard.

I reach into the box and take out one of his medals — the one with the eagle.

I place it where his king would be.

And I sit back, tears sliding down my cheeks.

“One last game,” I whisper.

“And then I’ll let you rest.”

But the truth is, I don’t think I ever will.

Because no matter how many boxes I tape shut,

no matter how many medals they pin to his name —

he's still just my son, sitting across from me,

grinning like a ten-year-old who just beat me at chess.

And as long as I leave this board open,

he’s not really gone.