Will had spent years chasing victory, collecting trophies to prove his worth. But when a man from his past—the father he hadn’t seen since childhood—showed up on his doorstep, his world tilted. The past wasn’t done with him, and neither was the chessboard he swore he’d never touch again.
Will stepped into his apartment, tired and disheveled. The air was stale, the place a mess, not dirty but lived in. He set a new trophy on a shelf, among dozens of others, his chest as hollow as before.
“Welcome to my disaster,” he muttered, glancing at Miley as she followed him in.
Miley smirked. “I’ve seen worse.”
She examined the cluttered trophies, commenting on how many he’d won. “Yet you don’t seem to care,” she added.
“I don’t,” Will replied. When she asked why he kept doing it, he admitted, “It’s all I know. I need to prove it wasn’t a waste.”
Miley’s gaze softened. “Prove to who?”
Will’s jaw tightened. “Someone who never cared.”
Her attention shifted to a dusty, old chessboard on a shelf. Will stiffened. “Don’t touch that,” he snapped, his voice harsh. He placed it back, avoiding eye contact.
The next morning, outside his apartment, Will froze. An old man sat on the steps, his clothes tattered. He looked up, his hollow eyes meeting Will’s. “It’s me,” the man whispered. “I’m your father.”
Will’s chest tightened. He stepped past him, coldly saying, “Let’s go.” Miley followed, confused.
In the car, Miley pressed him. Will, his voice flat, muttered, “He’s been dead to me for twelve years.”
She asked about the last time they spoke. Will’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “He gave me a chessboard, then left.”
Miley pressed further, but Will snapped, “I don’t care.” Finally, frustrated, she asked him to stop the car. She stepped out, leaving him behind.
Later, during an interview, the host asked about his inspiration to play. Will froze, remembering his father teaching him chess. He choked on the words and abruptly left the studio, his chest tight with emotion.
Back home, Will stood before the dusty chessboard, his fingers hovering over it. For the first time in twelve years, he let himself touch it.