Thirteen years after my father died, I finally returned to his house—a place frozen in time and heavy with memories. I told myself I was only there for old documents, but stepping inside felt like reopening a wound I’d avoided for over a decade. Every creak, every shadow, every familiar scent felt like my father was still lingering in the walls.

In the attic, buried among dusty boxes and old clothes, I found his worn leather game bag. Inside was a note in his handwriting: “We will play together after you pass the entrance exams, pumpkin! I’m really proud of you!” My heart broke—he never got to see me pass. Under the note was our old game console, still holding the last race he ever played.

When I turned it on, his “ghost car”—the game’s saved record of his fastest lap—appeared on the screen. It felt like he had left me one last race, one last moment to spend together. I played for hours, trying to catch him. When I finally could’ve beaten his record, I let him cross the finish line first. It hurt, but it felt right—like keeping a piece of him alive.

Now I take the console home and play whenever the world feels heavy. I talk to him, race him, remember him. I’m not ready to let him go, and maybe I never will. But each race gives me a bit of him back. Maybe one day I’ll beat his ghost car—but not today. Today, I just want to race with my dad.