Lillie's Last Game

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Lillie sat at the kitchen table, chin propped on her fist, glaring at the wooden game board in front of her. The board showed three dice, a cluster of painted wooden tokens, and the remains of a half-finished game. Outside the cottage window, the sky was turning that special shade of purple—the kind that meant bedtime was coming, whether she liked it or not. “No,” Lillie said firmly. “I'm not going to sleep. Not yet. We haven't finished the game.” Her grandmother, Gran, stood by the kettle with two mugs in her weathered hands. She was smiling, but it was the kind of smile that meant she'd heard this before. “One more round,” Lillie insisted. “Just one. Please.”

Gran set the mugs down on the table—one with warm milk for Lillie, one with tea for herself. Steam curled up like sleepy ghosts. “Darling,” Gran said, settling into the chair across from Lillie, “your eyes are already half-closed.” “They are not,” Lillie said. But she blinked slowly, and it took her eyes a moment to open again. Gran nudged the game board sideways. “Tell me why this game matters so much tonight.” Lillie picked up one of her tokens—a small blue bird carved from wood. She turned it over in her palm, not meeting Gran's gaze.

“Because,” Lillie said quietly, “tomorrow I won't be here to play it with you.” Gran's expression shifted. The smile didn't disappear, but it became something gentler. She reached across the table and traced a finger along Lillie's arm. “Ah,” Gran whispered. “That's the real game, isn't it?” Lillie looked up. Tears weren't in her eyes, but something close—a shininess, a brightness that wasn't quite happy. “You're visiting your aunt for a whole week,” Gran said. “And you're worried you'll miss our games.”