He conveniently left me a few weeks ago, just before I went to college.

And now I needed to figure things out for myself.

I pulled a pen and notebook out of my bag, and I wrote a question at the top of the first

page: how do I know if I'm on the right track?

I knew it was normal to feel lost in college, but I couldn't afford to be lost for long.

School started in a week, and I had chosen creative writing as my undergrad—a choice

father never would have approved of.

If I stayed lost for too long, I'd be thirty-thousand dollars in debt, with no job opportunities

to look forward to.

I stared at the question on the page.

For as long as I remembered, writing always helped me gain a sense of direction.

I started every essay with a question, because father told me the answers I find are only

as good as the questions I ask.

“If an answer is the treasure, a question is the tool you use to find it,” he said

to me.

“Use cheap tools, and you'll find cheap treasures.”

I believed father, because if I formulated a question well enough, sometimes the answer

just came to me on its own.

I was staring at the blank page, when I heard noises coming from behind my closet door.

At first, I ignored it and tried to write.

Father told me that Destiny calls to us, sweetly at first, like a mother calling her kids inside.

But if we ignored her for too long, she would get angry, and eventually, she would drag

us into her home, kicking and screaming.

He told me it was best to visit Destiny before she called.

“It's just polite,” he said.

But in that moment, father's advice slipped my mind, and I wanted to finish my essay,

and besides, the noise was very faint, almost relaxing.

But it got louder and louder, and eventually, I could no longer ignore it.

I walked over to the closet door and placed my ear against it.

I heard seagulls squawking and waves gently crashing.

I worried there was a leak on the other side, because I had just moved in.

I opened the door slowly at first, so if any water spilled out, I could shut it again.

But when nothing spilled out, I decided to get it over with quickly.

Like ripping off a bandaid, I thrusted the door open.

The closet was dark, and the noise had stopped.

I stepped inside and analyzed the shelves closely, but I couldn't find the source

of the noise.

Maybe it had come from another room?

As I turned to leave the closet, I saw a blue light peaking out from under a cloth, on a

shelf near the door.

I walked over to the light, and as I approached, I heard the sound of waves gently crashing.

I grabbed the object, removed the cloth, and found a crystal ball underneath.

The ball emitted a gentle, blue light.

When I looked at it closely, I saw a beach inside.

The waves rocked back and forth, the seagulls took flight, and the sun descended into the

ocean.

But the image suddenly vanished, and smoke started to swirl inside the orb.

It shined more intensely and became warm to the touch, and honestly, I worried that it

would explode.

I placed it back on the shelf and hurried outside of the closet.

I waited for the sound of an explosion, but instead, I heard nothing.

What was going on?

I needed to know.

I crept back to the orb and looked closely.

I saw a newspaper with a list of bestselling books, and my name was on it!

The image faded into smoke.

Had the orb shown me the truth?

It must have!

How else could it have known I was a writer?

I had formulated the question, and the answer really came to me.

And father was proven wrong!

“There's no money in writing,” he said.

“Choose a real career, like law.”

But the crystal ball confirmed that I was on the right track, and he was wrong.

I walked out of the closet, placed the ball on my desk, and called up my friends.

After finding out I was going to be rich and successful, I wanted to celebrate!

I spent the next few days partying, and little did I know, that ruined everything.

A few days later, after several long nights of drinking, I woke up and saw the ball glowing

on my desk.

I leapt out of bed, ran over to the orb, and held it close to my face, smiling from ear

to ear.

My heart raced as the smoke inside the ball swirled.

When the image finally appeared, I felt sick to the pit of my stomach.

Instead of writing bestsellers, I saw myself on the streets, begging for change.

I waited for the crystal ball to show me another image, but it went dark, and I knew it had

nothing more to say.

I put it back down on my desk.

All the time I had spent partying must have changed my future.

I had fallen off the right track.

Father told me life was a game of sacrifices.

“You can sacrifice the future for the present, or you can sacrifice the present for the future,”

he said to me.

“But you have to pick one.”

Father was right.

He was always right.

My head hurt from all the drinking.

I had sacrificed my future for a few good nights.

But if I could do that, that meant I could do the opposite: sacrifice my present for

a better future.

I just needed self-discipline.

So I walked over to my door and locked it.

I took a seat at my desk, pulled out my phone, and saw a text from Samantha.

She asked if I wanted to hang out today.

I told her I was very busy for the next few days.

I shut off my phone and placed it face-down on the desk.

I pulled a notebook and pen out of the desk and began writing.

Hour after hour passed, and I wrote word after word after word.

I refused to get up unless I had to use the bathroom.

Sixteen hours passed, and I finally put the pen down.

I had written five-thousand words in total.

I walked over to my bed and collapsed.

I felt lonely and exhausted.

But father told me that a good sacrifice is painful.

“It's like going to the gym,” he said.

“A little bit of pain makes you stronger.”

But what about a lot of pain, I thought.

I decided I was being a baby.

“If you run from pain, you'll never be everything you could be,” father said to

me.

He was right, and the crystal ball even agreed with him.

When I woke up the next morning, I immediately started writing.

After a few hours, my hand cramped, so I took a small break to play with the orb.

I held it in my hands, analyzing it.

The crystal ball remained dark, and I worried that the light might never return.

In moments of crisis, when I needed to remain disciplined, only one thing ever helped me:

faith.

Father always gave me faith.

When I was younger, I wanted to play the piano, just like him.

I watched him play every evening, and he played so beautifully.

He gave me faith in the result, faith that the piano was worth learning.

He gave me faith in the goal—in the future.

But he taught me how to play too.

In the evenings, when he practiced, he called me over to play with him.

He showed me the meanings of the different keys, and taught me a few songs.

He gave me faith in the process.

He gave me faith in the habit.

“A goal is a destination,” he said, “and habits are the road.

If you have faith in the destination, and faith in the road that will get you there,

you can drive forever,” he said to me.

I placed the orb back down on the desk and watched it.

It had given me faith in the destination.

I just needed it to validate that I was on the right road.

I started writing again, and I didn't put the pen down until 1AM.

By the end of the day, I had written five-thousand more words.

When I woke up the next day, I saw the orb shining again.

I threw the blanket off of me and ran towards it.

I felt like I had seen water for the first time after days of dehydration.

I picked up the crystal ball and watched the smoke swirl around inside.

My heart raced faster and faster as the smoke cleared up.

I saw myself at a bar, all alone, crying.

Why was I crying?

The image faded and another emerged.

Divorce papers.

I forgot about Sam.

The crystal ball went dark.

I put it down on the desk and proceeded to turn on my phone.

I had five missed calls, fifteen text messages, and a voicemail—all from her.

I gave her a call.

“Hey—”

“Oh my god Tony, you're alive!

I tried calling you so many times.

I was worried.”

“I know, I know—I'm sorry.”

“Is everything okay?

You've been acting differently since—”

“Since what?”

“Never mind.”

“Since my father died?

I told you, I've gotten over it.”

“No Tony.

You haven't even visited your father's grave since the funeral.”

“I've been busy working on this novel, and with school, and trying to make a future

for us.”

“You're burying yourself in your work.

This isn't healthy.

“I know.

I just can't deal with that right now.

Can I see you?”