They say time heals, but grief doesn’t keep a calendar. Thirteen years after my dad died, I still found him everywhere—the hiss of the kettle, the itch to call someone who wouldn’t answer. He wasn’t just my father; he was my world. I hadn’t stepped into his house since the funeral. The day I finally returned, the oak tree he’d planted for me whispered his words: “Strong roots, kiddo. Reach for the sky, but hold on to the ground.” Inside, the silence pressed heavy.

I told myself I was only there for a file, but the attic pulled me in. Among dust and sweaters, I found his flannel still carrying his scent, and a leather bag I knew instantly. Inside lay our old game console—and a note in his handwriting: We will play together after you pass the entrance exams, pumpkin! I’m really proud of you!

I collapsed, clutching it. He’d promised me races, and here was his ghost car—the saved record of his best lap, looping forever. Controller in hand, I raced him again. Lap after lap, I drew closer. At the finish line, I could’ve beaten him—but I let his ghost win. “If I let you stay first, do you stay?” I whispered. The silence was answer enough.

Now, when work drains me, I turn on the console. I tell him about my patients, my days, my mess. His ghost pulls ahead, steady as ever. Love doesn’t vanish—it changes form. For me, it’s a race I’ll never stop running with my dad.