Chapter 1

Nathan Palmer was hailed as a chess prodigy, and I'd been by his side for ten years, never officially his anything.

But even when he reached the highest rank, he still hadn't figured out that endgame score from his childhood.

Nathan said, "According to the rules, I can't get married until I solve it. I'm sorry."

I didn't make a scene. I just quietly helped him pack for his trip abroad and wished him luck in the tournament.

What Nathan didn't realize was that while he was dazzling everyone overseas, soaking up all that glory, I was sitting alone, pen in hand, about to sign away my own life.

*****

Every time Nathan went away for work, his study would be left in utter chaos.

He was the kind of guy who got so absorbed in chess that the rest of the world just faded away.

He'd rush out with his coat, completely forgetting his scarf.

He'd grab his backpack but leave behind the sandwich I'd made for him, still sitting untouched on the table.

His flight was at three in the afternoon. When the delivery guy knocked on the door, I was standing by his bookcase, carefully working my way through each chess manual and putting them back in order.

The top shelf was caked in dust. After a couple of swipes with the feather duster, a yellowed slip of paper fluttered to the floor.

That old chess problem. I knew it like the back of my hand—so well I almost wished I'd left it lying there.

But in the end, I just couldn't bring myself to shove that fragile sheet of paper back where it came from.

I pulled my own medical report out of my pocket.

The Palmers had been passing the game down for generations.

At Nathan's first-birthday "smash cake," while most kids dove face-first into frosting, he ignored the sugar altogether and crawled straight to the chess score, lifting it toward the crowd as if to say, "This one."

And now, here it was, right in my hands—the very one Nathan had picked up all those years ago.

If he could crack it, then the rest of his life would be his to decide—marriage, family, anything he wanted.

But if he couldn't, he'd be stuck as a bachelor forever.

The Palmer family hadn't seen a genius like Nathan in five whole generations.

Ten years by his side—from eighteen to twenty-eight—and I was still no one to him.

I even went so far as to secretly copy down that old chess puzzle, hoping maybe I'd see what Nathan couldn't.

Most nights, I'd sit alone under the glare of my desk lamp, struggling through those tangled chess rules one move at a time.

But I just wasn't gifted like he was. No matter how many times I tried, I could never crack that deadlocked board.

On this particular board, the white pieces had edged out the black by just half a point.

Nathan had this quirky habit—he'd always leave a little note on the last page of whatever chess manual he touched.

He'd actually solved that puzzle seven years ago.

Now that I was dying, I stopped clinging to the idea of getting an answer out of Nathan.

The end was already here—and with it, every answer I ever needed.

By the time I reached the waiting area at the airport, Nathan was already there with his eyes closed, quietly gathering his strength.

This was a scene I'd watched play out countless times over the past ten years.

I'd always find myself staring as he walked that endless hallway, coming right up to the tournament room door—head tilted back, eyes shut—like he was steeling himself for battle.

Most of the time, he was replaying the chessboard in his mind. Sometimes, though, his headaches would sneak up on him.

When I saw him massaging his temples, I just knew—I wasn't going to be able to get a single word out of myself today.

Caring about him had become so instinctive that I barely even noticed it anymore.

I walked over and quietly tucked the scarf around his neck.

I placed the gloves beside his left hand and set the sandwich down on his right.

I reminded him, "It's colder over there than here, so remember to turn on the AC before you sleep at night.

"Your wrist brace is in the inside pocket of your backpack. I've left a list in your suitcase with everything noted down.

"Oh, and seriously, lay off the cold stuff, okay? You know your stomach's always acting up."

Nathan finally snapped out of his daze, lifting his head to cut me off.

He echoed, "A list?"

I tilted my head and said, "Didn't want you calling me up again just 'cause you can't find something.

"Anyway, I got a trip lined up with the girls."

But honestly, that was just an excuse. The truth was, I probably wouldn't make it to watch Nathan's next tournament.

Before I left, the hospital sent me my treatment plan.

There were two options: one was to have surgery and spend the rest of my days living hooked up to a ventilator.

The other was euthanasia.

Nathan was the kind of guy who never asked for more—as long as I gave him an answer, he'd just let it be and move on, never once prying or questioning what was really behind it.

He mindlessly munched on that egg sandwich, grabbed his suitcase, and went off to check in without a second thought.

His figure kept shrinking in my sight, fading into the crowd until he was nearly out of view.

Something in me snapped—I found myself chasing after him one last time.

Separated by a pane of glass, I called out, "Nathan, isn't there anything you want to say to me?"

He stared blankly for a couple of seconds, then nudged his glasses up. He asked, "What?"

I forced a shaky smile and said, "It's nothing. Just good luck."

Nathan glanced at me a couple of times more than usual, his expression totally indifferent.

"Lina, you're acting kind of weird today," he said.

I nodded, pressing my trembling hand tightly inside my sleeve.

This was probably the last time I'd ever see Nathan.

Right after I asked him that question, I messaged my doctor: [Euthanasia. That's my choice.]

The day Nathan played in the finals—that was the date I picked.