It was bleak, to say the least. You spent the better part of a month inside your apartment, smoking, hardly eating, not reading or sleeping or feeling anything.

You'd never thought of yourself as depressed. You'd never even thought of yourself as mentally ill, but as hours turned into days, you were struck with the fact that you needed help. Mental help, emotional help—

And it was something you'd needed for a long time.

You never knew you could harbour so much hatred for a game that you loved so much; so much malice for a world that was so ingrained within your father; so much resentment for yourself for pushing yourself away from everyone you ever loved, and who loved you back.

You'd neglected every phone call that had rung from your line, too afraid that it wouldn't be Benny—

You missed him. More than you missed your father, you thought—and that was something that scared you more than the first time you'd played chess.

You didn't feel haunted by your father, but you couldn't deny that you felt he was around you. His presence, his aura, his intelligence and wit—you could feel it, as you slumbered in bed for days on end without saying a word to anyone.

You'd hit rock bottom. Utterly and completely.

You'd hit it so hard that sometimes you found yourself laughing. A maniacal, cackling laugh, where your chest would begin to hurt and your limbs would begin to shake, but no tears would push their way out of your eyes.

On some days, you willed yourself to descend the six floors to your mailbox and back up to your apartment, but you hadn't received anything—

Until the day before the Chicago tournament.

There was one letter, encased in a cream envelope with a wax seal at the back. You looked at it grumpily as you sat on the floor by the fire escape, lit cigarette dangling from your lips. You were about to open it when your phone rang, jolting you with adrenaline.

You stared it down, as the insatiable urge to pick it up came over you. The calls had calmed down after the first week of zero contact; probably because your friends had slowly found out what had happened.

You believed they'd resent you, perceive you differently; you didn't reach out, nor did you accept their offers of reaching out to you. It was easier that way; that was your mentality.

It was a fucked up mentality, a part of you screamed, but you ignored it as best as you could—

Until you finally curled your fingers around the phone that morning, shaking as you held it to your ear, not saying anything in greeting as you readied yourself for whatever was on the other end of the line.

"Y/N," Beth breathed out. "I thought you were dead—we all thought you were dead." An overwhelming warmth spread through your chest; it had been so long since you'd felt it, and all it did was remind you how much you'd fucked everything up.

You let out a shaky breath, inhaling cigarette smoke afterwards. "Not dead," You let out, barely.

"What're you doing, Y/N?" Beth said, her voice harsher suddenly.

"Ha, that's a good question," You replied sadistically, but your eyes were already beginning to well. It stung as they did—you'd been so devoid of anything for almost a month, it felt strange to be feeling anything.

"Are you okay?"

Are you okay?

Those three words were enough for you to breakdown, completely. You hung your head in shame as you shook uncontrollably. You hated feeling this vulnerable, this exposed, but you knew that someday you'd need to let go—you need to get back up.

"I'm a fucking fool, Beth." You forced out though trembling lips.

"Is this about Benny?" She said softly, and just hearing his name was enough to make you sob. It cemented the fact that they all knew—maybe not all the details, but they knew something had happened.

"Partly— but I think it's also just about me. I was so vile. I think back to what I said to him and I don't know how I'll ever make up for it," You stopped to let out a sob.

"I had a similar experience with him," Beth began, and you clutched onto her every word. "After I lost in Paris, he asked me to come and see him, to let him help me. I rejected him—all because I wanted a fucking drink. He told me never to call him again," She said it with disgust aimed at herself. "After months, he was the one to call me up in Russia, the morning before my game with Borgov."

You tried to understand what she was saying, if there was any moral to her tale, but you couldn't look past the guilt you felt.

"Y/N, when Benny sees unfulfilled potential, that's when he blows up. I don't think this is just about something deeper—I think it's because he can see what you're capable of, but you can't."

You listened to her soft words, finally starting to understand slightly. It was the same way that Benny never minded losing to you—he wanted you to understand your abilities for yourself; he wanted you to know that you were good—

But you couldn't look past your father— you couldn't look past the fact that you didn't like yourself. How would you ever fully accept someone else's love if you couldn't love yourself?

It was then that it dawned on you— It wasn't just about the feelings, the trust, the love—

It was about the fact that Benny could see something that you'd never wanted to admit to yourself—that maybe—

You were a better chess player than your father.

"Where are you?" You asked Beth, abruptly.

"Chicago. Just arrived. I saw your name on the sign ups. Benny's flight just left JFK."

You were struck with an idea—

That maybe you would play—maybe that would solve everything; with yourself, and the way you felt inwardly; with Benny, the way you'd hit him down so horribly when you'd been so overwhelmed.

That thought was heavily crushed by the other side of your mind, though. Your father, his name, his legacy—you'd always hated the game, not just because you'd stopped yourself from playing, but because you knew that if you had played back then, everyone would think of him—

And they'd probably still think of him if you played, now.

While some part of you wanted to honour him by showing your gifts, the other was telling you it was wrong— chess was his game, his life, his world. You couldn't trample that down—

You wouldn't.

"Are you going to play?" Beth said optimistically. "I can book you a flight—I can get you a seat on the next plane—,"

"Beth," You interrupted her with a sad finality. "Play well tomorrow."

You hung up before she could respond, too afraid that you'd break your own heart all over again. You lit another cigarette as you felt a weight fall onto your ribs. Despite understanding, you still wouldn't play. Despite understanding, you still had no way to show you were sorry to Benny—

You couldn't do that to your father, after all he'd achieved. You couldn't suddenly emerge as an equally as talented, if not better, chess player. It would be like you were covering up his wins, his plays, his memory within the community.

This wouldn't be as easy as sauntering into the Columbia Chess Club and sitting down to play—this wouldn't be as easy as the past fights you'd had with Benny. As much as you wanted to prove to him what you were, you didn't know how to.

And you had a feeling that Benny didn't ever want to see you again.

Have a nice life, Y/N.

How would you ever have a nice life without the champion being a part of it?

You inhaled smoke as your eyes flicked back to the letter in your lap. You sniffed, wiping away your earlier tears as the lump in your throat began to subside. You ripped open the wax seal, revealing two pieces of paper, one of which was folded up. You held the first page up to your face.

Your cigarette immediately dropped from your lips as your eyes scanned the words—

It was from your father's lawyer. It told you that, encased, was a letter written by your father, addressed to you. There had been specific instructions not to send the letter until six months after the time of his death, assuming that it would have been less painful to receive after some time.

You almost huffed at the idea of your father specifically telling his lawyer the rules to sending this letter. No matter how long passed, even after your eventual release in Maude's cabin, the thought of him was always going to be painful.

You held your breath as you trembled, holding his letter in your hands. You thought about not reading it, but you couldn't shove down the urge; you wanted to imagine his words in your head once more—you wanted to hear his voice, see his handwriting, and remember—

You wanted to remember him.

You unfolded his letter slowly, forcing yourself to breathe as you laid your eyes on the page. It was dated from 1962, around the time you'd moved out of the family home.

You bit your lip, looking at his handwriting—it was scruffy and rushed, like he'd been spilling his thoughts onto a page rapidly. You remembered the fast-paced way he'd record his chess moves during a game, how he always pretended he wasn't left-handed, when he actually was.

You finally moved your gaze to the top of the page, ready to read his words—

My girl,

I must admit that I am afraid to say this to you face to face. Not because of it being offensive, but I fear that I'll frighten you. Forgive me for writing it like this, so bleakly. I hope by the time you receive this that we've already spoken about this together, but if not, then I offer you this, my dear.

You once told me a chess move, when you were exceptionally young. I didn't realise the significance of that moment until now; that is the only time you've ever spoken to me about the game.

I've noticed that you've read all of my books, my magazines, my papers, and I wonder— do you know the game of chess back to front? I don't doubt it, if I'm being honest, my dear. I think you know exactly how the game operates. But I fear you resent the world I am from, and I'm sorry for surrounding you with it from such a young age. I worry it may have taken up your childhood years, and I will never forgive myself for that.

I have a feeling, my dear, if I may be so frank— that you play the game invisibly; in your minds' eye; in a darkness that myself or your mother cannot penetrate. I want to see it, someday.

I want to sit opposite my daughter and see the way she can put her old man into checkmate.

All my love.

You dropped his letter to the floor.

You didn't weep, you didn't sob, or wail, or crumble—but you felt every bone in your body shift.

He'd known—he'd felt it—your knowledge and interest in his game. He'd seen you reading, learning, progressing— rejecting the game. He'd seen it all.

You didn't know whether to cry or scream, so instead, you laughed. It wasn't maniacal, it was joyous. It was years of not understanding, of shoving yourself so far into a corner that you thought you'd never emerge, finally going away. It was the pain, the hurt, the anger, flowing out of you and through the cracks in your floorboards, all the way six storeys down, until they descended through cracks in the Manhattan soil.

You stood then, grasping his letter so tightly that it crinkled and crumpled in your palm. You could see more than just the apartment around you; you could hear the frostbitten trees outside as they brushed past one another; you could feel the scuff of a chess piece as it glided across the board to its next destination.

You had never been free before; you had merely been distracted.

But this—

His words, his confession, his clear admiration toward you, and the time you'd spent trying to hide this side of you from the only person that would have understood fully—

You took this as permission—to play his game. Not to finish what he'd started, no; he was different from you in the way he played the game, but to flourish. To grow on your own terms, with your own play style—to follow the likes of him, Morphy, Alekhine, Watts and Harmon—

To play a game you knew you were good at.

You knew exactly what you needed to do, the same way you knew the story as it unfolded in your mind whenever you sat down before a chess board.

You clamped your eyes shut, seeing yourself, alone, at that chess table once more. A man came into view, young, with wise eyes and a beautiful mind. Your father sat opposite you, hovering his hand over the clock and sending you an excited smile—

A smile that told you he'd been waiting for this moment since you were eighteen years old.

You stared back at him with a quivering smile, but furrowed brows. You wanted to show him what you could do—you wanted to show him that everything you'd learnt had been because of him.

"Ready?" He spoke.

You clasped your fingers over the crown of your king, breathing life into him as you looked your father in the eye—

"Let's play."