“Whatever comes,” he said, “promise you will keep playing chess with me.”
“I promise,” I answered, meaning every word.
As winter deepened, Arthur’s cough worsened with each passing morning.
By the third week of the bitter season, even lifting a chess piece had become difficult for him.
One afternoon I sat beside his bed, holding a cup of the imported tea he loved, when the door suddenly flew open without warning.
Gregory entered first, tall and expressionless, followed by his sister Evelyn and three sharply dressed men carrying leather folders.
“Father, we need to talk about your care,” Gregory announced. “This place is bleeding money you don’t have to spare.”
Arthur pushed himself upright against the pillows, his eyes still sharp despite his weakened body.
