ld record.

In this game, when a player set a record time, their ghost car would appear in future races — driving the exact path they took, over and over, waiting for someone to beat them.

Dad had left a piece of himself there… a challenge and a race I never got to finish.

“Dad,” I whispered, “Is this your way of talking to me? After all these years?”

I remembered the night before he went to the hospital for the last time.

We had been playing this very game.

“I don’t feel right, leaving you tomorrow,” he said, trying to hide his worry.

“It’s just a check-up, Dad,” I replied, not knowing those would be our last moments together like this. “You’ll be back before you know it.”

“Promise me something,” he said, suddenly serious. “Promise me you’ll keep racing, even when I’m not here.”

I hadn’t understood then.

I did now.

I gripped the controller and took a shaky breath. “Alright, Dad,” I whispered. “Let’s play.”

The countdown started.

3… 2… 1… GO!

I hit the gas, my car speeding down the track beside his.

The ghost car moved exactly as I remembered — flawless turns and perfect acceleration.

I could almost hear his laughter and his teasing voice. “Come on, pumpkin, you gotta push harder than that.”

“I’m trying, Dad!” I laughed through my tears, gripping the controller tighter. “You always were a show-off on this track!”

I pushed.

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’m not afraid,” I argued with the ghost car.

“I’m just… I’m not ready to say goodbye again.”

And for the first time in 13 years, it felt like he was here with me.

It took hours, but eventually, I did it. 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,” I whispered, “if I let you win, will you stay? Will I be able to race you again tomorrow?”

The ghost car continued its path, oblivious to my pleading.

“I miss you so much,” I sobbed.

“Every single day. I have so much to tell you… about my job, about my life. There are days I still pick up the phone to call you.”

And then I let go.

I watched as his ghost car passed me, crossing the finish line first.

Tears burned my eyes, but I didn’t wipe them away. I didn’t want to erase him. I wanted to keep playing with him.

I whispered through my sobs, “I love you, Dad.”

And then, with a trembling smile, I added, “The game is still on.”

I took the console home that night.

And every now and then, when the world feels too heavy and when I miss him so much it hurts… I turn it on. And I race him.

Not to win. Just to be with him a little longer.

Because some games should never end.

As I set up the console in my apartment, I found myself talking to him as if he were sitting right beside me.

“You know, Dad, there was this patient today. Reminded me so much of you… he was stubborn as hell, but with the kindest eyes. I told him about our races, and he said his daughter used to play with him too.”

I sat cross-legged on the floor, exactly like I used to as a teenager.

“Sometimes I wonder what you’d think of me now,” I continued, selecting his ghost car’s track.

“Would you be proud? Would you tell me I’m working too hard? You always said I needed to take more breaks.”

I turned around, reminscing Dad’s laughter.

The race began, and as always, his ghost car pulled ahead.

“There are days I’m so mad at you for leaving,” I admitted, my voice barely audible over the game’s music. “And then there are days I’m just grateful I had you at all.”

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As the race continued, I felt something shift within me — a weight I’d been carrying for 13 years began to lighten.

“I think I’m ready now, Dad,” I said, wiping away the beads of warm tears. “Not to let you go… never that.

But to let you be a part of my life again, instead of just my grief.”

I crossed the finish line behind his ghost car once more.

Setting down the controller, I walked to the window and looked up at the night sky. “I hope wherever you are, you can see me. I hope you know that I’m okay.

Not perfect, but okay.”

I touched the worn console and smiled through my tears. “And I hope you know that every race we have and every time I see your ghost car, it’s like having a piece of you back.”

I curled up on the couch, the controller still in my hand, and for the first time in years, the memories didn’t hurt quite as much.

“Goodnight, Dad,” I whispered. “Same time next weekend?”

And in the quiet of my apartment, with the game’s idle music playing softly, I could almost hear him reply, “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, pumpkin.”

Because love doesn’t die.

It transforms. It becomes the ghost car we chase, the voice we hear in empty rooms, and the strength we find when we think we have none left.

And sometimes, it becomes a game that never ends… a connection that transcends time, space, and even death itself. A game where losing means winning, and playing is more important than the outcome… a game called love.

And as I drifted off to sleep, controller in hand, I knew one thing for certain: as long as I kept racing and as long as I kept his memory alive, my father would never truly be gone.

He’d be right there beside me, always one lap ahead, waiting for me to catch up.

And one day, I would. But not today. Today, I just wanted to race with my dad.