I remember that the knight was your favourite, “because it looks happy”, and your first move would always be to set it free. If I chuckled, you would hunch and imitate me, “there are no bad moves, only bad ideas!”, and I would laugh so much my cheeks ached.

The smell of roasted chestnut would cover those afternoons like a warm blanket, and our music was the crackling fire and the morse code of grandma’s knitting. They say that love is in silence, and mine bloomed every time you sat in your arm chair, your legs kicking out like little baguette rolls.

Even then I could see the inventor in you. A tight spot always inspired a new move – a pawn that acquired jetpacks, or a king with a one-turn invisibility cloak (which lasted twelve). But your best was honest, the bait trap using your knight. When you yelled “check mate!”, grandma clapped and howled, and I was so overwhelmed with pride that I had a coughing fit. I suppose love is loud, too.

I remember you sprinting away, but instead of a victory lap, you returned and handed me a glass of water, your hands trembling.

“Please don’t die, grandpa,” you cried. “Ever.”

“I’m not going to die,” I chortled, waving away death like a fly.

“Do you promise?”

I’m not sure what made me promise. I guess I’m an inventor too, because your smile after that felt like the first one I ever saw.

I’m so sorry I’m breaking it, Tom, my go is over. I love you infinity (plus one).