I Visited My Late Father’s House for the First Time in 13 Years and Found a Bag in the Attic with a Note for Me

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.”

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.

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