Man Hadn’t Touched the Chessboard His Father Gave Him in 12 Years and When He Finally Did, He Found a Letter Inside — Story of the Day

Will shoved the door open, stepping inside his apartment with a tired sigh. The air inside was stale, carrying the scent of old coffee and forgotten laundry. It was a mess—not dirty, just… lived in.

Papers, books, and unopened mail cluttered the coffee table. A jacket was tossed over a chair. Dishes sat in the sink, waiting for a day that never came.

In one hand, he held a golden trophy, still cool from the air-conditioned tournament hall. Another win. Another title. And yet, his chest felt as hollow as ever.

“Welcome to my disaster,” he muttered, glancing at Miley as she stepped in behind him.

Miley chuckled, kicking the door shut behind her. “I’ve seen worse.”

She wandered in, taking in the space—half-curious, half-amused.

Will placed the trophy on an already overcrowded shelf, slotting it between dozens of others, each one gleaming under the dim apartment light. Shiny proof of his so-called success.

Then, he collapsed onto the couch, rubbing his face. His body ached from the long flight, the endless matches, the interviews, the cameras, the expectations.

Winning took energy. Pretending to care took even more.

Miley, meanwhile, trailed a finger along the trophies, her gaze moving over the framed certificates, the neatly stacked medals, the ribbons pinned to the walls.

“You know,” she mused, “some people dream their whole lives of winning just one of these.” She turned, giving him a small, teasing smile. “You have, what, fifty?”

Will scoffed, tilting his head against the couch. “More like seventy.”

She laughed, but then her smile faded, replaced by something closer to curiosity. “And yet… you don’t seem to care.”

“I don’t.”

Miley crossed her arms, shifting her weight onto one foot. Her gaze didn’t waver. “Then why do you keep doing it?”

Will exhaled, staring up at the ceiling. The cracks in the paint seemed more interesting than answering. But the silence stretched too long, and Miley was waiting.

“It’s all I know how to do,” he finally admitted. “I’ve been playing since I was a kid. I have to prove that it wasn’t a waste of time.”

Miley tilted her head, watching him carefully. “Prove to who? Because it’s clearly not for yourself.”

Will felt his chest tighten. The words were too close, too direct. His mouth opened, then shut again.

He forced himself to breathe.

Finally, he muttered, “Someone who never cared either way.”

Miley didn’t press. Maybe she sensed the weight of those words. Instead, she turned her attention to the bookshelf beside the trophies.

Her eyes moved over his collection of chessboards—some handcrafted, some antique, some gifts from sponsors, all of them meticulously arranged.

Then, at the far end of the shelf, she spotted something different.

A plain, dusty wooden chessboard.

It was worn at the edges, the wood darkened by time. No intricate carvings. No expensive craftsmanship. Just a simple board—forgotten, overlooked.

Miley reached for it, brushing off a layer of dust.

“What’s this one?”

Will’s entire body stiffened.

In an instant, he was up, snatching it from her hands.

“Don’t touch that,” he snapped, his voice sharper than he intended.

Miley blinked, startled. “Why? It’s just—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

He placed it back on the shelf, roughly, as if even touching it burned.

Miley watched him. The way his hands clenched at his sides. The way his jaw was tight, eyes distant.

Something about that board was different. Important.

She didn’t push.

Instead, she gave a slow nod. “Okay.”

But something in her eyes told him she wasn’t going to forget.

The next morning, Will stepped outside, pulling his jacket tighter against the sharp bite of the early autumn air. The city smelled like damp pavement, burnt coffee, and the crisp promise of colder days ahead.

Miley followed behind, stretching her arms. “So,” she mused, a playful lilt in her voice, “where are we celebrating your victory? French bistro? Diner with bottomless coffee?”

Will smirked. “Let’s get through the interview first, then we—”

His words died in his throat.

Halfway down the steps of his apartment building, he froze.

There, sitting hunched over on the cold concrete, was an old man.

His clothes were tattered, layers of frayed fabric doing little against the morning chill. His hair was gray, unkempt, curling slightly at the ends, and his hands were weathered and trembling, resting limply on his lap.

His boots—if you could even call them that—looked like they were held together by sheer willpower.

Miley took one look at Will’s face and stopped short.

“Will…?” she asked softly. “Do you know him?”

The man stirred, as if waking from some far-off thought. Slowly, he lifted his head.

The eyes that met Will’s were hollow, tired—yet familiar.

“Will,” the man said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “It’s me.”

Will felt his heartbeat slam against his ribs. Too fast. Too hard.

His hands curled into fists. His chest tightened.

“No,” he muttered. “You’re not here. You’re not real.”

The old man swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing against his thin, wrinkled skin.

“I’m real,” he said, firmer this time. “My name is Neville. I’m your father.”

Silence.

Miley turned to Will, blinking in shock. “Wait. Your father?”

She turned back to Neville, her voice gentler now. “It’s nice to meet you. Maybe we can help—”

“No.”

Will’s voice was sharp. Cold.

His jaw locked. His pulse roared in his ears. The world had blurred, narrowing to this one unbearable moment.

Neville. His father. A man he had buried in his mind years ago.

Will forced his feet to move, stepping past the man without another word.

“Will.” Miley’s voice was gentle, confused.

He kept walking. “Let’s go.”

Miley hesitated, looking between Will and Neville. The old man hadn’t moved. He just watched his son walk away, as if he had expected this.

As if he had known this was the only outcome.

Miley finally sighed and jogged to catch up.

They got into the car. The silence pressed down like a weight.

Miley shifted in her seat, stealing a glance at Will’s rigid posture, his hands gripping the steering wheel tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

Finally, she spoke. “Will… what just happened?”

Will stared straight ahead, his voice flat. “He’s dead. As far as I’m concerned, he’s been dead for ten years.”

She blinked. “You saw him ten years ago?”

“No. Twelve. On my birthday.”

Miley watched him carefully. “And?”

Will’s fingers tapped against the steering wheel. His jaw clenched. He didn’t want to talk about this.

“He gave me a chessboard,” he finally muttered. “Then he left.”

Miley’s breath hitched. She turned slightly in her seat, really looking at him now. The way his shoulders were tense, locked in place. The way his mouth was set in a hard line, like speaking the words out loud made them worse.

“Did he ever tell you why?” she asked softly.

“No.” His voice was sharp. Final. “And I don’t care.”

Miley exhaled, shaking her head. “You don’t want to at least hear him out?”

“No.”

Silence.

“Stop the car!”

Will stopped. Then, Miley reached for the door handle.

Will’s head snapped toward her. His chest tightened.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m getting out.”

Her tone was calm but firm.

Will’s grip tightened on the wheel. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.

He searched her face—frustration, disappointment. Something else.

Miley opened the door, stepping out onto the sidewalk. She didn’t slam it. She didn’t yell. She just left.

Will watched her walk away.

And he let her.

The bright studio lights felt like they were drilling into Will’s skull. He sat stiffly, fingers clasped together, forcing himself to stay composed as the cameras zoomed in on his face.

“So, Will,” the interviewer beamed, clearly enjoying the moment more than Will was, “another brilliant victory. What’s your secret?”

Will kept his voice flat. “Preparation. And luck.”

The interviewer chuckled, shaking his head. “And talent. Come on, let’s be honest. You’re a great player. What’s your secret?”

Will said nothing. His mind was already slipping away from the conversation.

The interviewer leaned forward, tone shifting, like he was about to ask something deep and personal.

“Tell me, was there someone who inspired you to play?”

Will’s breath hitched.

For the first time, he hesitated.

A memory crashed through him—his father, leaning over the chessboard, guiding his small hands, smiling when he made the right move.

The tightness in his chest became unbearable.

“I—” His throat closed. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. “I need to go.”

Will stood abruptly, ripping off his microphone.

The crew called after him. The interviewer’s voice rang out.

But Will didn’t stop.

The door clicked shut behind him, but he barely heard it. His chest felt tight, like a fist had wrapped around his lungs. His feet moved on their own, past the couch, past the trophies, past everything that had once felt important.

The dusty wooden chessboard.

His fingers hesitated as they hovered over it. Then, for the first time in twelve years, he let himself touch it. The rough wood was cool beneath his fingertips, the dust smudging against his skin.

He swallowed hard. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled between the wooden pieces, was a letter.

His hands trembled as he unfolded the yellowed paper. The ink had faded slightly, but the words hit like a punch to the gut.

My son, Happy Birthday. This chessboard belonged to your grandfather. Now it belongs to you. I won’t see you tomorrow. I did something terrible.

I caused an accident. I must pay for what I did. I’m turning myself in. I was never the father you deserved. But I have always loved you. And I always will. I wish I could play just one more game with you.

Will’s vision blurred. His breath came uneven, shaky. His father didn’t leave—he had been paying for his mistakes.

A tear slipped down his cheek. How could he have never known?

Then, a voice. Soft. Careful.

“Will.”

He turned, his heart pounding.

Miley stood in the doorway, her face full of understanding and something even deeper—hope. And beside her…

Neville.

His father.

Older, weaker than the man in his memories, but real.

Neville’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry, son.”

Will stared at him. This man. This stranger. His father.

He didn’t speak. Instead, he turned back to the chessboard.

With slow, steady hands, he set up the pieces.

Then, he looked up.

“Play?”

Neville’s breath hitched. A tear slid down his cheek. He nodded.

They shook hands.

And for the first time in twelve years, Will was about to play with enjoyment with the person who taught him to love this game.

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If you enjoyed this story, read this one: On my wedding day, as vows were exchanged and love filled the air, Rick’s mother, Irene, found a way to steal the spotlight. From her dramatic interruption at the altar to gifting me a book, “How to Be a Good Wife for My Precious Son,” it was clear: she wasn’t ready to let me into her world—or her son’s. Read the full story here.

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