I Found Him Where I'd Never Been.

## **The Stranger in My Memories**

**By Adil Khan (optional)**

The first time I dreamed of him, I thought nothing of it.

He stood by a fountain in a town square I didn’t recognize—tall, wearing a dark green coat, a calm expression on his face. I woke up feeling strangely comforted, as if I’d reunited with someone I hadn’t seen in years. But I couldn’t place him. He was a stranger.

The dreams kept coming.

Every night, a new scene. A library with stained glass windows. A cafe with yellow chairs. A hill where we sat and watched the stars. The man never spoke, but his eyes told stories. And every time I woke up, my heart ached with a longing I couldn’t explain.

I started sketching him. I’m not an artist, but I captured enough—the curve of his jaw, the way his hair curled at the ends, the scar just below his left eyebrow. I even dreamed of his name once: **Luca**.

By the fourth week, I stopped calling it “just a dream.”

One afternoon, overwhelmed by the vividness of it all, I searched online for the landmarks from my dreams. The fountain. The café. The hill. I didn’t expect anything.

But I found the town.

**Marina**. A small village in northern Italy.

I stared at the screen, goosebumps crawling up my arms. The photos online matched my dreams exactly—right down to the ivy-covered bookstore across from the cafe. I had never been to Italy in my life.

That night, I booked a ticket.

Marina was quiet, almost sleepy. The scent of fresh bread and lavender drifted through cobbled streets. I wandered aimlessly at first, half-wondering if this was all a ridiculous mistake. A romantic delusion.

But then I saw it.

The fountain from my dream.

And beside it, a man in a green coat.

I stopped breathing.

It wasn’t an exact match—he was older than the man in my dreams. More tired around the eyes. But it was him.

He noticed me staring. I looked away, pretending to read the map in my hand. But when I looked up again, he was walking toward me.

“Are you lost?” he asked in perfect English, with a warm Italian accent.

His voice sent a shiver down my spine. **It was the voice from the dreams.**

“No,” I said, unsure of anything, “I… think I know you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so,” I replied. “At least, not really.”

We stood in silence for a few moments, both of us unsure what to say next. Then he smiled, a small, unsure smile.

“Well,” he said, “maybe we’re meant to.”

We talked for hours.

His name was Luca Moretti. He was a photographer, born and raised in Marina. Never left the country, he said. He lived alone, traveled often for work, and came to the fountain every Tuesday for the light—it hit the stone just right for his photos.

We kept meeting after that. First by accident. Then on purpose.

With each conversation, I felt it more—**this wasn’t new**. I knew the way he laughed before he laughed. I knew how he’d tilt his head when thinking. I even knew how he took his coffee: two sugars, no milk.

One day, I asked him if he ever had strange dreams.

He looked at me carefully and said, “Sometimes. Why?”

“Do they ever feel… like memories?”

His expression changed. Something deep behind his eyes stirred. After a pause, he said softly, “There’s a woman I see in mine. She always wears a silver ring on her right hand. We never speak. But I always wake up with her name in my mouth.”

I glanced down at my ring. I’d worn it for years. A family heirloom. The band caught the light.

“What’s her name?” I asked.

He looked straight at me.

“**Elena.**”

My heart dropped. “That’s my name.

We sat in silence, staring at each other, the world fading away.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was worn, soft from years of unfolding. On it, a sketch—of me. Down to the scar on my chin from a childhood bike accident.

“I drew this a year ago,” he said. “I never knew why.”

I couldn’t speak.

I didn’t know what this was. A glitch in the universe? A past life spilling into this one? Or maybe something even stranger—something we’d never understand.

But I didn’t need to.

I believed in it.

In him.

In us.

**Two years later**, Luca and I live in a small flat above the same bookstore from my dreams. He still photographs the fountain on Tuesdays. I’ve learned to bake bread that makes the whole street smell like home.

Sometimes, we still dream.

But now, when I wake, he’s already there—no longer a stranger in my memories, but a part of my real life.

And every morning, without fail, he whispers, “I always knew it was you.”