The old ladder groaned as I climbed. Dust floated through the beams of light like tiny ghosts of memory. Everything was still there: my childhood trophies, his flannel shirts, boxes filled with things neither of us could throw away. I picked up one of his shirts, pressed it to my face, and breathed in the scent of cedar and soap. “You promised you’d see me graduate,” I whispered. In my mind, I could almost hear him answer, “I’m sorry, pumpkin. I tried.”
Then I saw it—a worn leather bag tucked behind some old books. My heart skipped. It was our weekend bag, the one that held our video game console. Every Saturday, we’d sit for hours racing cars, laughing, teasing, competing.
I unzipped it and froze. On top of the console was a folded note with my name written on it. The handwriting was his.
“We’ll play together after you pass the entrance exams, pumpkin. I’m proud of you.”
My eyes filled. “You didn’t get to see it,” I whispered. “But I did it, Dad. You were right.”
I set up the old console, just like we used to. The screen flickered, and the old racing game appeared. And then I saw it—his ghost car, saved from his last game. The game always kept the fastest lap as a transparent version of your car, replaying it forever.
“You left me a race,” I murmured.
I remembered the last time we played before he went to the hospital. He’d grinned and said, “Promise me you’ll keep racing.” I hadn’t understood what he meant until now.
I picked up the controller. My hands shook as the countdown started. His ghost car shot forward, smooth and confident, just like him. “Push, kiddo,” I could almost hear him say.
“I’m trying,” I whispered. My chest ached, but I kept going. Lap after lap, I grew closer. For the first time in years, I felt like he was there beside me.
When I finally reached the finish line, I had a choice—to win and erase his record, or let his car stay. My thumb hovered over the button. “If I let you win, do you stay?” I asked softly.
The room was quiet. I smiled through my tears and lifted my finger, letting him cross first.
His car glided across the screen, and I laughed—a sound that felt lighter than it had in years. I realized grief hadn’t disappeared. It had just softened, making space for something new: peace.
I took the console home. Now, on nights when work at the hospital leaves me exhausted, I plug it in and race. Sometimes I talk to him—telling him about my patients, my days, the small moments of kindness he would’ve loved. His car always pulls ahead on the first lap, just like it used to. I never try to beat him now. It’s enough just to chase him.
One night, after a long shift, I stood by the window and whispered, “If you can see me, Dad, I’m okay. Not perfect, but okay.”
The console hummed softly, its light steady and warm. “Every time I race you,” I said, “I get a piece of you back.”
I left the console on that night, his ghost car looping endlessly around the track. Just before I drifted off to sleep, I thought I heard it again—his voice, warm and smiling: “Same time next weekend, pumpkin?”
I smiled into the dark. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Love doesn’t end. It just changes form. Sometimes it’s a voice you still hear in the hum of an old machine, or a presence that lives in a memory. Sometimes it’s a ghost car on a screen, always just ahead, reminding you to keep going—lap after lap—until you finally catch up.