They claim time mends wounds, but sorrow doesn’t obey rules. Thirteen years have passed since I lost my father, yet not a single day goes by without missing him. But stepping into his home for the first time since his passing, I uncovered something in the attic—something that reduced me to tears.

Loss doesn’t vanish. It embeds itself deep within, resting in the quiet corners of life, waiting to remind you of what’s gone. It’s been over a decade since my father, Patrick, left this world, and still, he is in my thoughts daily.

He wasn’t just my father—he was my entire world. With my mother abandoning me at birth, he became my sole guardian, my unwavering protector, and my sense of home. When he passed, my existence turned into an empty space I never truly learned to fill.

I couldn’t bring myself to return to his house after the funeral. The silence was unbearable, crushing me under its weight. Each room echoed with his laughter, his comforting presence, and the way he would hum while brewing coffee.

Living there wasn’t an option. So, I left. Yet, I never sold the house—I wasn’t ready to part with it. Perhaps, deep within, I always knew I’d find my way back. And thirteen years later, that moment arrived.

Standing on the porch, I clutched an old copper key, my stomach tightening.

“You can handle this, Lindsay,” I murmured. “It’s just a house.”

But it wasn’t just a house. It was a vault of memories—his laughter, his advice, his presence.

Pressing my forehead against the door, I whispered, “Dad… I don’t know if I can do this alone.”

A breeze stirred the leaves of the ancient oak tree he had planted when I was born. I could hear his voice in my mind: “This tree will grow as you do, kiddo—deep roots and high-reaching branches.”

I had convinced myself I was only there for some paperwork. That was the plan—get in, get out. No lingering. No sifting through memories.

But grief doesn’t work like that. And neither does love.

Turning the key, I stepped inside.

“Welcome home, kiddo.” His voice rang in my ears, just as it had every time I walked through the door.

It wasn’t real, merely my mind playing tricks. But for a brief moment, I believed I heard him.

Suddenly, I was seventeen again, arriving home from school to find him at the kitchen table, flipping through a newspaper, ready to ask about my day.

“Dad?” The word escaped before I could stop it, only to be met with silence.

Swallowing hard, I forced myself forward, wiping away a stray tear. I was here for documents—nothing else.

But the house had other intentions.

The attic smelled of dust and forgotten moments.

Box after box, I sorted through old papers, striving to stay focused.

It was futile. Every item—a worn flannel jacket, a half-empty tin of his favorite mints, a framed photo of us on my high school graduation day—hit me like a wave.

Clutching the flannel to my chest, I inhaled deeply, catching the faint scent still lingering in the fabric.

“You swore you’d be at my college graduation,” I murmured, tears spilling. “You promised you’d watch me cross that stage.”

The jacket gave no reply, yet I could almost hear him say, “I’m sorry, pumpkin. I would’ve moved mountains to be there.”

Wiping my eyes, I kept searching. Then I saw it: a weathered leather bag hidden behind old books. My breath caught. I knew this bag.

With trembling hands, I unzipped it. Right on top lay a folded note—a letter from my father, penned years ago.

My chest tightened as I unfolded the paper, my vision blurring while I read:

“We’ll play together after you pass the entrance exams, pumpkin! I’m so proud of you!”

A sob escaped me.

“You never got to see me pass them,” I cried, clutching the letter. “I did it, Dad. Just like you always said I would.”

Now, I understood what was inside the bag.

Our old gaming console.

Every weekend, we played together. It was our tradition. Our favorite? A racing game. I was terrible, and he was unbeatable. Each time I lost, he’d ruffle my hair and chuckle, “One day, you’ll beat me, kiddo. But not today.”

The memory struck me so hard I collapsed to my knees, weeping.

“Remember when I got so mad I threw the controller?” I choked out between laughs and tears. “And you just looked at me and said…”

“It’s just a game, pumpkin. The real race is life, and you’re winning that one by miles.”

His voice was so vivid in my mind that it ached. Tracing my fingers over the console, I felt the past wash over me.

I had promised him I’d become a nurse—to help people. And I did. I endured medical school, worked grueling hours, paid off my debts. But I never got the chance to play that game with him again.

“I did it, Dad,” I whispered. “I saved lives. I just wish… I wish you were there to see it.”

Before doubt could creep in, I carried the console downstairs, hooked it to the old television, and powered it on. The screen flickered to life, the familiar startup melody playing.

Then, I saw it. A ghost car at the starting line. My father’s car.

Tears streamed down my face. His record was still there.

In the game, when a player set a record, their ghost car replayed their fastest race, driving the exact same path over and over, waiting for a challenger.

Dad had left a part of himself here—a race unfinished.

“Dad,” I whispered. “Is this your way of speaking to me?”

I recalled our last night together before he went to the hospital.

“I don’t like leaving you tomorrow,” he had said.

“It’s just a check-up, Dad,” I had replied, unaware those moments would be our last together. “You’ll be back before you know it.”

“Promise me something,” he had said. “Promise you’ll keep racing, even if I’m not around.”

I hadn’t understood then. I did now.

Gripping the controller, I took a deep breath. “Alright, Dad,” I murmured. “Let’s race.”

The countdown began.

3… 2… 1… GO!

His ghost car sped ahead, just as I remembered—perfect turns, flawless speed. I could almost hear his voice teasing, “Push harder, pumpkin!”

“I’m trying, Dad!” I laughed through my tears. “You always did love showing off.”

Race after race, I chased him. And just like before, he was always one step ahead.

I hesitated at the finish line. If I won, his ghost car would vanish.

“I miss you,” I whispered. “Every single day.”

And I let go. His car crossed first.

Tears blurred my vision, but I smiled. I didn’t want to erase him. I wanted to keep playing.

“I love you, Dad,” I said. “The race isn’t over.”

That night, I took the console home. And when life feels heavy, when missing him becomes unbearable, I turn it on.

Not to win. Just to be with him a little longer.

Because some games shouldn’t end. Some races go on forever.

And as long as I keep playing, he’ll never truly be gone—always one lap ahead, waiting for me to catch up.