A Voice Without a Face

Paul had always battled sleep.

Each night, he tossed and turned, his mind a flickering projector of unfinished tasks, missed deadlines, and "what ifs" that marched in endless loops. His bed, rather than a sanctuary, had become a battleground between rest and racing thoughts. On this night, however, something felt different.

He had finally given in and taken the sleep medication his doctor had prescribed weeks ago, but which he’d hesitated to use. The pill sat like a miracle on his tongue, dissolving as he sipped water and slid under the covers. Within minutes, a warm calmness swept over him like waves lapping gently at a quiet shore. His eyelids grew heavy, and for once, Paul didn’t resist.

He slipped away.

The dream began gently. He was strolling through a park—one he didn’t recognize but immediately loved. It was a place bursting with color and serenity. The path beneath his feet was soft and mossy. Towering trees arched above, their branches forming a living cathedral. Around the base of each tree, radiant red roses bloomed like flames, their petals catching glints of golden light from a sun that hung in a sky painted with every hue of peace.

Paul breathed in deeply.

For the first time in what felt like years, he felt fully at ease. He smiled to himself, marveling at the quiet, at the stillness in his mind. He pulled his phone from his pocket to take a photo, something to remember this rare clarity.

And that’s when it happened.

A sudden figure—shadowy, fast—darted into the path. Without warning, they lunged for his phone. Paul instinctively resisted, gripping it tighter.

“Hey! What are you—get off me!”

They struggled. The figure yanked, shoved, and hissed words Paul couldn’t quite make out. He fought back, refusing to surrender this piece of his world.

Then, pain.

A white-hot, stabbing flash to his ribs.

Paul’s legs buckled. He felt the phone slip from his grasp, then the world tilted. His hands opened—empty—and he collapsed to the ground.

Darkness crept in from the corners.

“I... I think I’m no longer alive,” Paul whispered.

He lay there, confused, the dream folding in on itself. Had he died? Was this just a side effect of the sleep medication?

Before he could process more, a light shimmered above his head. From that light emerged some familiar figures.

“Tio? (which was the Spanish phrase for Uncle), why are you here with Grandma Martina?” Paul screamed?

They were smiling, gentle, aglow with a warmth he hadn’t felt since their funerals.

“You’re not done,” Uncle Ben said.

“You’ve got a little time,” Grandma whispered. “But only to say goodbye.”

Paul blinked. “Say goodbye? To whom?”

“To your family. Your daughters. Your loved ones,” she said. “But there’s a condition. They’ll hear your voice—but they won’t be able to see you.”

His stomach dropped. “They won’t see me?”

“No. They’ll think it’s in their heads, or maybe a memory. But it’s all the time you’ve got. Use it wisely.”

And with that, the world shifted again.

Paul was standing outside his daughter’s house. Somehow, he knew he didn’t have long. He walked through the front door—no longer limited by walls.

“Emily,” he said softly.

She was curled on the couch, scrolling through her phone. She paused.

“Dad?”

He smiled. “Yes. I love you. I’m sorry I wasn’t around enough. I was too busy chasing things that don’t matter half as much as you do.”

She sat up straighter, tears forming. “I miss you.”

He lingered a moment, then moved on.

Next was Ava, his next daughter. She was in her art studio, painting an abstract and moody piece.

“Ava, it’s Dad. I know I’ve been distant. I never stopped loving you. I was just... distracted. I'm sorry.”

She stiffened, turned, eyes darting. “Dad? You weren’t there when I needed you. You didn’t come to the park when I wanted you there. Sometimes, I didn’t see you for days while you were busy studying for exams!”

Paul’s heart ached. “I know. You’re right. But I’m here now, even if you can’t see me. I hope one day you’ll forgive me.”

She said nothing, but a tear splashed onto the canvas.

Lastly, he stopped to say goodbye to Jean. She was still struggling with the early stages of her career, trying to hold on to her challenging job responsibilities.

“Jean,” Paul whispered.

She smiled suddenly. “Dad... I was thinking about you.”

“I never told you enough how proud I am of you,” he said. “You’re strong and kind and brilliant. I wish I had said it more.”

She closed her eyes and nodded, whispering, “Thanks, Dad.”

Time folded again. The glowing light returned, and Tio and Grandma Martina appeared once more.

“You did what you could,” they said in unison.

“I wish I had more time,” Paul said.

“You still do.”

Then suddenly, Paul bolted up in bed. Sweat covered his face while his heart raced. His hands were clenched into fists, then opened—empty, but alive.

The room was dark, and the faint hum of the city beyond the window was audible. He touched his ribs. No pain. His phone lay on the nightstand, undisturbed.

It had all been a dream. Or something more.

Paul sat for a long while. Then he stood up, walked to the living room, and stared out the window at the quiet streets.

That morning, over his favorite breakfast drink —a caffeine-infused refresher —and with a still heart, Paul understood the message. The dream was a warning.

He picked up his phone and dialed.

“Emily, it’s Dad. I just wanted to say I love you... and I want to make time to see you this week.”

Next was Ava.

Then Jean.

The dream had stripped away the illusion of forever. Life was brief. Work could wait. Love could not.

Paul would never see red roses or parks the same way again.

As he walked into the new day, fully awake, he promised himself this: no more regrets and no more lost time!