Page 3 of Grim

Check.Mate.

Three Hours Before the Present

“D on’t go easy on me just because I’m an old man, kid.” GG squints across the chessboard at me, his liver-spotted hand hovering above his rook like it’s a nuclear trigger.

We’re playing in the rec room of Sunset Gardens, a senior community center.

We’re surrounded by floral wallpaper in a maudlin shade of beige that makes it look as though the repeating pattern of daisies never knew color.

The gentle wheezing sound of oxygen tanks fills the space with a distant white noise.

“GG,” I say patiently, “you tried to castle into check five moves ago. I’m doing you a mercy.”

He harrumphs. “A mercy? You calling me weak?”

“I’m calling you old, GG. Weak came with the upgrade.”

He snorts. “You know, I fought in a war.”

“And I’ve fought for the remote at a local bar during the playoffs, so really, we’re both soldiers.”

That earns a huff of laughter. He finally moves his bishop, eyeing me like he expects it to bite.

“Checkmate in three,” I announce.

“You’re a menace,” he grumbles.

“And you’re a glutton for punishment. Want to go best out of five? ”

He waves me off and starts setting up the board again. “You’re gonna have to pry this win from my cold, arthritic hands.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Across the room, Selma is crocheting something with yarn that is aggressively purple, watching us with the smug expression of someone who has read the end of the book before anyone else.

I glance at the clock. “I’ve got to go soon, Selma,” I call over. “Are you ready for our literary showdown next week?”

She perks up. “Of course. We’re still reading Rebecca , right?”

I flip my shoulder-length hair from my face. “Obviously. I have strong opinions about Mrs. Danvers, and I need someone to validate my rage.”

“I’ve got opinions about you , Miss Rue.” She smirks while pointing her hook at me.

“Those don’t count. You’re biased. You like me.”

She makes a noncommittal sound that’s somewhere between a scoff and a purr. “You bring me peppermint tea and books with bite. You’ll do until Liam is ready for my bath.”

I wiggle my brows at the woman while giving her a suggestive grin. “Now, Selma, you haven’t been pulling out those old photos from your twenties to seduce the poor man, have you?”

Selma claps her arthritic hands together as she lets out a laugh. The nurses around me smile softly.

I know I’m one of the only visitors these seniors get.

They come here because their kids put them here while they’re working—like an elderly daycare.

Or, in GG’s situation, he comes because he’s lonely.

The problem is that most are lonely, old, tired, and no one wants to engage in conversation.

That’s where I come in. I somehow became the social butterfly of Sunset and now come weekly to hang out with the group.

Well … I try to. Sometimes, I have to skip a week if I’m too tired.

But I’m coming next week for sure. I never miss book club with the 1950s ex-pinup-star Selma.

I’ll be honest; I’ve seen the old photos, and she was a solid ten.

“All right, you all try to behave while I’m gone,” I warn while grabbing my coat off the back of GG’s chair. “Same time next week, GG?”

He nods. “Bring your A game, girlie. I’m training for this one.”

“Bring your glasses, GG. Would hate for you to not see my victory.” I give him a small kiss on the cheek before heading to the front doors.

I grab my phone and order a rideshare before going to sit on the bench and wait.

I miss driving. It’s funny because I actually hated it growing up.

I blame it on living with my mom in Chicago and then with my dad in New Orleans when he was home on shore leave.

When my doctor told me last year that I couldn’t drive with my new medication, I was honestly happy because it meant no more stressing in traffic.

But now I realize it’s just another slice of freedom this illness has stolen from me.

Looking up, I smile at the skies, which threaten rain. I hope it’s a cleansing downpour; this humidity is making it even harder to breathe.

I jump as my phone buzzes in my hand and roll my eyes sarcastically when I see who’s calling— Mom .

I swipe to answer and hold the phone to my ear. “Rue Chamberlain. Reporting for emotional whiplash.”

There is a tired exhale of breath before my mom’s refined voice responds, “Is that how you answer the phone now?”

“It is when the caller ID says Guilt Trip.”

“You named me that?”

“Originally, it was Supreme Overlord of Guilt, but I opted for brevity. Plus, every time I see the name, it really raises the stakes of answering. Guilt Trip. Accept or decline? Hmmm.”

“I’m touched,” she deadpans.

“It was either that or Warden.”

She sighs, but I can hear the smile behind it. “Are you coming straight home?”

“I mean, I was planning to stop for a margarita and a motorcycle tattoo, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’s exactly what I’m asking. You’ve got that look in your voice again.”

“That’s not how voices work. ”

“It is when you’re my daughter. I know your I’m about to make a bad decision tone.”

“Relax. I’m coming home. Chess with GG. Sass from Selma. Nothing illegal or remotely dangerous.”

“Yet.”

“You’re very comforting, Mom.”

“That’s what they say in all the parenting books. Be deeply supportive and vaguely threatening.”

I exhale a laugh and glance to see my rideshare has arrived. I place my earbuds in as I head to the back of the white sedan.

“You feeling okay today?” she asks, the softness slipping in like a shadow beneath the sarcasm.

“I’m fine,” I say. Which is mostly true. Or at least true enough for now.

There’s a pause, just long enough to say I know you’re lying, but I’ll let you have it .

“I’m making soup,” she announces, and I let out a polite sigh.

I’m trying to stay chipper and witty, but I’m actually exhausted.

“The air is the consistency of soup, almost the same temperature too. Why on earth would you make that right now? Also—and this is even more important—you can’t cook!”

She snorts. “You don’t need to be a Michelin-starred chef to use a can opener and the microwave. Now get home before it goes cold.”

“Just make sure you don’t put the can in the microwave, Mom.”

She sighs good-naturedly, then hangs up.

The call ends just as the clouds break. A soft drizzle begins, dotting the window as the driver pulls away from the curb. The rain drums steady on the roof of the car, soft and rhythmic, like fingers tapping out a lullaby.

I let my head rest against the cool window and try to anchor myself in that sound. It’s easier to focus on something external than the ache in my chest or the knots in my mind.

I reflect on the day as the rain beats out its natural rooftop rhythms .

Sunset Gardens smelled like pear and lavender hand lotion today.

GG tried to cheat at chess again, and I let him.

Selma made me cry laughing with her deadpan review of our book club pick: “Too many feelings. Not enough murder.” I brought her orange chamomile tea, and she called me her “little weirdo sweetie.”

That’s something, isn’t it?

That should be enough.

Lives touched and impacted. Doesn’t matter for how long, does it?

The car turns onto Main Street, tires hissing over wet asphalt. I squeeze the edge of my dress and watch the blurred shapes outside the window. Lights smudge like watercolors. The world is still moving. Always moving.

Do they laugh with me because they care or because they feel sorry for me?

I shake the thought off like a drop of rain, but it clings to me. The driver hums along to a song I don’t know. His voice is off-key, but he makes up for it with confidence.

Will they still laugh like that when I’m gone?

I try to hold on to the warmth I felt leaving Sunset Gardens—the old fingers squeezing mine, the way Selma winked at me like we shared a secret. I tell myself that matters.

But even this most recent memory has a shadow behind it.

If I disappeared tomorrow, would the world just … keep turning like I was never here?

I clench my jaw and shake my head, trying to scatter the thoughts like leaves in the wind. They don’t go far. They never do. But I know the difference between despair and surrender. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to run out of time before I’ve said what I need to say.

Outside the window, Saint Rienne slips by in softened colors.

It’s a town most would overlook on a map—tucked just north of New Orleans, hidden somewhere between myth and memory.

It’s the kind of place that feels dipped in nostalgia, even while it’s still happening.

It’s a patchwork of wrought iron balconies, rain-slicked cobblestones, and pastel buildings that look like they’ve been washed and repainted a dozen times by ghost hands.

Spanish moss drapes the live oaks like tattered lace.

Bougainvillea vines cling to painted brick, their blooms bright against the grey.

A trio of old women huddles beneath a shared umbrella, arguing in French over pastries in a bakery window.

A jazz quartet plays under the green awning of a coffee shop, undeterred by the weather, their brass notes curling into the mist like a hymn for the dying day.

Tucked between the café and the bakery like a secret the street’s trying not to tell, a voodoo shop leans slightly to one side—its shutters half closed, its windows fogged with time.

Purple candles burn low behind the glass, their flames barely flickering, and a faded, painted sign hangs overhead that simply reads OPEN , as if it has always been and always will be.