The Stranger in My Dreams

It started on a Tuesday night, though I can’t remember the exact date. I only know it was the kind of night when the wind pressed against the windows like it had secrets to tell. My dreams had always been strange, but that night, they became something else entirely—something that felt alive, as if my subconscious had a new visitor.

I was walking down a fog-drenched street, the kind that exists only in half-remembered memories, when I saw him. A figure, tall and indistinct, standing under a flickering streetlamp. I couldn’t see his face clearly, but there was something familiar about him, something that pulled at the edges of my mind. When he turned to look at me, I woke with a start, heart racing, unable to shake the feeling that I had just met someone important.

At first, I tried to dismiss it as a dream—just another figment of my imagination. But he returned night after night, always in the same foggy street, always under the same flickering lamp. He didn’t speak, didn’t move toward me, yet I felt his presence pressing into me, demanding attention. I began writing down every detail I could remember: the way the fog curled around his boots, the way the lamp cast uneven shadows across the pavement, even the faint smell of rain and earth.

Then the dreams began to bleed into reality. It started small—a phrase from one dream would echo in a conversation I had the next day, a street sign would appear in the exact configuration I had seen the night before. At first, I laughed it off. Coincidence, I told myself. But the more it happened, the harder it became to ignore.

One night, he spoke. Not with words, but with gestures. He pointed toward a small, abandoned bookstore I had walked past countless times but never entered. Heart pounding, I followed his silent direction the next morning. The door creaked open, revealing dusty shelves filled with forgotten books, their pages yellowed with age. And there, lying on the counter, was a notebook with my name written on the cover.

Inside were pages of dreams I hadn’t yet had, events I hadn’t yet lived. A chill ran down my spine as I flipped through them. There were entries about encounters I would have at work, arguments with friends, moments of quiet solitude. Everything in the notebook was my life—but somehow, written before it happened.

I started avoiding sleep, terrified that the dreams would reveal something I wasn’t ready to face. But sleep is a stubborn necessity, and eventually, exhaustion dragged me under. In the dream, the stranger was waiting, as always. This time, he extended a hand. “Follow me,” his gesture said, and though I wanted to resist, I found myself walking with him down the foggy street.

We arrived at a bridge, suspended over black water that reflected the fractured moonlight. He stopped, pointing to the water below. I looked down and saw scenes from my own life playing out on the surface—moments of joy, regret, anger, and sorrow—all swirling together like a montage. And then I understood: he wasn’t just a stranger. He was a guide, a mirror, a warning. He was showing me the paths I had yet to take, the choices that would shape me, and the consequences I could not ignore.

When I woke the next morning, the sunlight felt different, sharper somehow. I noticed the small things—how the light fell across the table, the pattern of leaves outside the window, the quiet hum of the city waking up. It was as if the dreams had opened my eyes to a layer of reality I had ignored for too long.

The stranger appeared less frequently after that. Sometimes he would watch from a distance, fading into the fog before I could reach him. But the lessons lingered. I started paying attention—listening to my intuition, noticing coincidences, embracing the little moments that made life feel alive. I took risks I had been avoiding, spoke words I had been afraid to say, and forgave those I had long held grudges against.

And yet, there is still a part of me that wonders who he really was. A fragment of my mind? A guardian angel? Or something older, something that exists in the thin line between sleep and waking, guiding those willing to see?

One night, long after the dreams had slowed, I saw him one last time. He smiled, just slightly, and turned away, disappearing into the fog. I didn’t feel fear. I felt gratitude. For months, a stranger had led me through my own life, showing me paths I hadn’t noticed, helping me understand that even in the shadows, clarity could be found.

Sleep has returned to its normal rhythm now, but I often think of him. Sometimes, when I walk down an empty street or stand under a flickering streetlamp, I swear I catch a glimpse of a familiar silhouette, waiting in the mist, reminding me that dreams are not just dreams—and that some strangers appear to teach us exactly what we need to know.