They say time heals, but grief doesn’t follow rules. Thirteen years have passed since I lost my father, yet not a single day goes by that I don’t miss him. I thought I had learned to live with the ache, but stepping into his house for the first time since his death shattered me all over again. And what I found in the attic—something so unexpected, so powerful—brought me to my knees in tears.
Grief isn’t like a wound that closes. It’s more like a shadow that follows you, a quiet presence in the background of your life. My father, Patrick, wasn’t just my dad—he was my whole world. My mother left the day I was born, and he stepped up without hesitation.
He raised me with endless love, endless patience, and an endless belief that I could be anything. When he passed away, my world collapsed, and no matter how many years went by, I never truly learned how to live without him.
I never returned to his house after the funeral. I couldn’t. The moment I stepped inside that day, the silence felt unbearable. Every inch of that place carried his warmth, his laughter, his little habits—how he hummed while making coffee or left his reading glasses on every available surface. Staying was impossible. So, I left.
But I never sold the house. I wasn’t ready to let it go. Maybe, deep down, I knew I’d return one day. And that day came, thirteen years later.
I stood on the front porch, gripping the old copper key in my hand. My heart pounded against my ribs as I stared at the door.
“You can do this, Lindsay,” I whispered to myself. “It’s just a house.”
But it wasn’t just a house. It was him. It was every bedtime story, every comforting hug, every lesson he ever taught me. It was everything I had lost.
I pressed my forehead against the door and choked out, “Dad, I don’t know if I can do this without you.”
A sudden gust of wind rustled the leaves of the oak tree in the yard—the one he planted when I was born. His words echoed in my mind: “This tree will grow with you, kiddo. Strong roots and branches reaching for the sky.”
I took a deep breath and unlocked the door. The air inside smelled of dust and time, but beneath it all, I swore I could still catch a hint of his cologne. As I stepped forward, a memory hit me so vividly that I nearly stumbled.
“Welcome home, kiddo.” His voice echoed in my mind, just like every time I had ever walked through this door.
I wasn’t thirty-two anymore. I was seventeen, coming home from school, dropping my backpack by the door while he sat at the kitchen table, flipping through the newspaper, ready to ask how my day had been.
“Dad?” I whispered, the word slipping out before I could stop it. The silence that followed crushed me.
I wiped away the tears threatening to spill over and forced myself to move. I was here for old documents—nothing else. No lingering. No reliving memories. Just in and out.
But grief doesn’t work that way. And neither does love.
I found myself in the attic, surrounded by boxes covered in dust. As I rummaged through stacks of papers, my fingers brushed against something soft. I pulled out one of Dad’s old flannel jackets, still carrying the faintest trace of his scent. I hugged it close, my heart squeezing in my chest.
“You promised you’d be at my college graduation,” I whispered. “You promised you’d see me walk across that stage.”
No answer. Just the stillness of the attic. But I could almost hear his voice, gentle and full of regret: “I’m sorry, pumpkin. I would’ve moved heaven and earth to be there.”
Swallowing hard, I continued searching until I saw it—a worn-out leather bag tucked behind a stack of old books. My breath hitched. I knew this bag.
My fingers trembled as I unzipped it, and right on top was a folded note in my father’s handwriting. My vision blurred as I read:
“We will play together after you pass the entrance exams, pumpkin! I’m really proud of you!”
A sob burst from my chest. “You never got to see me pass them,” I cried, clutching the note to my heart. “You never knew I did it, Dad. I passed with flying colors, just like you always said I would.”
Inside the bag was our old game console. Dad and I used to play together every weekend. It was our thing. We had one game we always came back to—a racing game. I was terrible at it, and he was unbeatable. Every time I lost, he’d ruffle my hair and say, “One day, you’ll beat me, kiddo. But not today.”
Tears streamed down my face as I carried the console downstairs. With shaky hands, I plugged it into the old TV and turned it on. The screen flickered to life, and then… I saw it. A ghost car at the starting line. My father’s car.
I covered my mouth, a fresh wave of emotion hitting me. It was his old record.
In this game, when a player set a record time, their ghost car would appear in future races, following the exact path they took, waiting for someone to beat them.
Dad had left a piece of himself here. A challenge. A race I never got to finish.
I gripped the controller and took a shaky breath. “Alright, Dad. Let’s play.”
The countdown began.
3… 2… 1… GO!
His ghost car took off, just as fast and flawless as ever. I pushed the gas, chasing him down the track. It felt like he was right there beside me, laughing, teasing, pushing me to go faster.
“Come on, pumpkin, you gotta push harder than that.”
“I’m trying, Dad!” I laughed through my tears. “You always were a show-off on this track!”
Race after race, I tried to catch him. But just like before, he was always ahead.
“You’re holding back,” I could almost hear him say. “You always do that when you’re afraid.”
I gripped the controller tighter. “I’m not afraid. I just… I’m not ready to say goodbye again.”
Hours passed, and on the final lap, I finally pulled ahead. The finish line was right there. One more second, and I’d win. One more second, and I’d erase his ghost from the game.
My thumb hovered over the gas button.
“Dad… if I let you win, will you stay? Will I be able to race you again tomorrow?”
The ghost car moved on, unaware of my plea.
And I let go. I watched him cross the finish line first, just as he always had.
“I love you, Dad,” I whispered, smiling through my tears. “The game is still on.”
I took the console home that night. And whenever I miss him—when the world feels too heavy—I turn it on and race him. Not to win. Just to be with him a little longer.
Because some games should never end.
