Time doesn’t heal grief—it burrows deep, quietly reminding you of your loss.
Thirteen years ago, I lost my father, Patrick, and every day since, I’ve missed him. After his death, I couldn’t return to his house.
The silence was too much. Yet, I never sold it. Deep down, I knew I’d return someday. That day came, and I stood on his porch with the old copper key in hand. “It’s just a house,” I whispered, but it was so much more. Inside, I searched for old documents, but memories overwhelmed me. Each item—the jacket, the photo from my graduation—was a punch to the gut. In the attic, I found Dad’s old leather bag with a letter. “We’ll play after your exams,” he’d written. Tears flowed as I remembered his promise to watch me graduate.
As I hooked up the old game console, I saw his ghost car, his record still there. I raced, and for the first time in years, it felt like he was right beside me. He wasn’t just gone. He was part of the race, part of my life.
And as I crossed the finish line, I realized—some games never end.
