There it was: a leather bag tucked behind old books. I knew that bag—it had been part of our weekends, our laughter, our world. Inside lay a folded note in his handwriting:
“We’ll play together after you pass your exams, pumpkin! I’m proud of you.”
My throat tightened. “You didn’t get to see it,” I whispered. “I passed, Dad.” I already knew what was inside the bag—our old game console.
Racing games were our ritual. I always lost. He’d laugh, ruffle my hair, and say, “One day you’ll beat me, but not today. The real race is life, and you’re already winning.”
I set up the console and turned it on. The startup sound filled the room. There on the screen was a ghost car—his best run, recorded forever. His ghost was still waiting for me at the starting line.
“You left me a race,” I whispered. And I finally understood what he meant when he once said, “Promise me you’ll keep racing, even when I’m not here.”
I gripped the controller. Three… two… one… go. His ghost shot forward with the same effortless speed I remembered. Lap after lap, I got closer. His old racing lines felt like lessons in motion—steady, patient, full of care.
Eventually, I could’ve won. I hovered at the finish line, thumb trembling. If I passed him, his name would vanish from the top of the leaderboard—replaced by mine. “If I let you win, do you stay?” I asked the screen. The ghost didn’t answer.
So I let him cross first.
It hurt—but it felt like grace.
Now, on days when the hospital where I work feels too heavy, I come home and play. I tell him about my patients, the people fighting their own races. I pick his favorite track and let his ghost lead.
“You’d be proud of me,” I whisper. “You always were.” And for a few laps, I feel him there—steady, cheering, smiling through every curve.
Love doesn’t fade. It just changes form. Sometimes it’s a voice in the quiet, a shadow in the sunlight, or a ghost car that refuses to quit the track, pulling you forward, asking you to try.
I’ll catch him someday. But not today. Today, I just want to race with my dad.
Have you ever held on to something that made you feel close to someone you lost? Share your story below — someone out there needs to hear it.